The Cellist
by CharlieMaye
Summary: A new neighbor moves in across from 221B Baker St. At first, Sherlock shows no interest in them but, once they start playing their cello at the strangest of times, Sherlock finds himself working to figure out the identity of this stranger. The pursuit of The Cellist consumes his thoughts more than he'd like to admit.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is just an idea that popped into my head and wouldn't leave me alone! So I'm just getting out of my system. :)Don't be afraid to visit me on tumblr: morethanyourpast. If you have any suggestions for me, I'd gladly take them. This is all just for fun, really. **

**I should say I am not British by any means but I've tried my best to not seem horribly American...Also, any of the pieces I mention in here, I'd listen to. Because they're beautiful! I love me some Bach!**

**Anyways, I don't own anything but my little character, The Cellist. Sorry if it's OOC for you. I try my hardest to keep it in character!  
**

* * *

The two gentlemen at 221B Baker St. had just finished wrapping up the end ties of a case; it was a double homicide, the wife and the lover in cahoots to inherit the life insurance. Really, easy work.

John finished typing up the summary on his blog, which the hit counter was still increasing at a rapid rate, and Sherlock resumed his wide legged slouch in one of the chairs. His head was held by one hand while the other absently rolled against the leather arm of his seat.

Really, times like this felt nice for John. It was a sense of normalcy and ever since he'd moved in with his new flat mate, he hadn't experienced much of that.

John closed his laptop shut and pick up the handle of his mug. Closing his eyes, he took a long drink, letting the warm drink sooth his throat.

He looked out the window, down into the street.

"Looks like we have a new neighbor."

There was a small moving van parked across from their window and the carriers were going into the building adjacent.

The only response he'd received from Sherlock was a disinterested grumble of syllables, just as much as he'd expected. And that was as far as their conversation about the new neighbor continued, until about a week later.

* * *

Sherlock had been given another case. This time it was an 'accident'; the victim had been attacked by an animal but it was no accident. The act of it was clearly well thought out and strictly planned.

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock had asked the group on the crime scene.

He would.

Now, the two of them were back in their flat. John was trying to find anything edible in their fridge, past the jar of pickled fingers, and Sherlock was brooding—thinking—in his chair. From outside their building, a melody sprang up and twirled. It was a cello. The soft sound rose up and sang.

It was different from the normal sounds of their street and, for John, _someone else_ playing a stringed instrument was quite refreshing.

Sherlock then stood up, gave a quick glance out the window, and then retreated into his bedroom without saying a word.

John paid no particular attention; by this point, he was familiar with Sherlock's strange mannerisms and no longer felt the need to question them.

He ducked his head back into the fridge, moved aside the jar of fingers, and found an orange.

* * *

While this hadn't exactly been a verbal conversation, there was conversation in all of their actions. If John had been better at picking up on these things, he'd have noticed. Sherlock did.

John had a five' o'clock shadow and a pair of blue trainers. His jumper was for comfort, not to impress. He'd come out of his room around noon, looking for food. He'd shuffled about.

Whether it had happened yet or not, John and his most recent girlfriend—Sherlock could never keep track of them—were going to break up. Maybe it did happen? If John had already told him, he didn't remember; it wasn't important information.

Undoubtedly, John was staying in tonight.

If John could observe Sherlock, he'd see this: his toes were twitching inside his shoes, a habit that he'd never picked up, not even while thinking; his eyes did not keep in one place but were distracted and bounced off the objects in front of him; at the beginning of the cello playing it's tune, Sherlock's ear had picked up a little—a sign of recognition. Bach. Cello Suite No. 1, first movement. Overly played.

The conclusion being Sherlock could not concentrate, which is a rarity in itself.

That would explain why he'd gotten up to close their window before receding into the darkness of his own room.

* * *

Another day later in the week, the two of them had quickly finished the next case. Like often, it was rather easy for Sherlock.

The opening in their schedule left the two of them back in their flat. Actually, it left Sherlock in the flat.

John had picked up the position at the clinic. It appears they'd given him a second chance, which left Sherlock to sit in the flat alone.

The day was inching by and the clock on his phone seemed to mock Sherlock, as did the yellow smiley face on their wall. Surely he couldn't go that far again; Mrs. Hudson would have a fit.

Sherlock let his head fall back against the chair and he groaned.

Then, the cello started playing again.

That, too, mocked him.

One of the Bach cello suites—No 1, second movement.

Sherlock got up, his dressing gown falling loosely around his pajamas, and opened one of the windows wider to stick his head out. From where their flat was located in the building mixed with the acoustics of the street, it was hard to pinpoint the exact source of music.

He climbed back into the window and ran out his front door. On the bottom landing, he rushed past Mrs. Hudson.

"Sherlock, where are you going? You're in your bathrobe, it's indecent."

He ignored her protest and stood out on the front sidewalk. His dark brows furrowed and he closed his eyes, trying to ignore the rest of life around him to solely focus on the sound of the cello.

Sherlock could feel each sweeping motion of the grit on the bow hair across the gutted strings with each intentional swaying phrase. The natural breaths spiked anticipation and the _rubato* _eased into the piece.

The low sound bounced off of the brick walls of the street and Sherlock waded through the muddiness of it all.

Based off the projection, wind speed, clarity—

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John was standing next to him. "You look crazy."

He looked to a few passers-by and noticed the questioning looks he was receiving.

"Nothing. Just thinking."

The melody died out but Sherlock was close to finding it.

It was on third floor, across the street.

* * *

*Rubato: An important characteristic of the Romantic period. It is a style where the strict tempo is temporarily abandoned for a more emotional tone.

A/N: I know Bach isn't from the romantic period but you still do plenty of rubato in it!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: When I checked my e-mail this morning and got notifications about people adding this to their alerts and reviewing, I was making the ugliest whale noises. So, I dedicate those noises to you all, wonderful readers. :P But really, it was quite the pleasant surprise!**

**Again, I don't own anything but "The Cellist"-you'll find out what her name is eventually. Also, if anyone wants to point out and be my Brit Picker, that'd be cool. Any and all suggestions are welcome and appreciated. 3**

**Just a reminder, I suggest listening to any of the songs I mention in here. They're all quite lovely and the cello is the most BEAUTIFUL instrument ever. :3**

* * *

That night, in lieu of the situation, Sherlock brought out his computer and sat it down on the desk. He opened an internet tab to play a recording of "Bach's Cello Suite No. 1, Menuet I and II", playing at the loudest the computer speakers would allow.

John tried to protest but Sherlock only waved him away.

"No. An experiment."

And with that, Sherlock sat back down in his plush leather chair. One hand rested silently on the arm while the other came to rest against his cheek, a finger or two brushing absently over his lips and nose.

Deep down, he hoped that whoever had been playing the cello could hear his speakers.

Why?

To annoy them? To…distract them as much as they had he?

He wasn't quite sure exactly but, nevertheless, it didn't stop him from doing it.

* * *

The next morning, Sherlock woke up feeling quite refreshed. He knew he'd receive a call from Lestrade—he hadn't yet, but he knew it was coming—so he'd finally be relieved from his boredom.

He also had yet to hear any cello playing, which was, perhaps, more of a slight victory than he'd like to admit.

However, that night, it continued.

And the next night.

And the next.

The next.

And

The

Next

Night

After

That.

IT INFURIATED SHERLOCK, though he didn't show it much.

Every night he checked the clock and this mysterious cellist began playing sometime after eight, usually eight thirty.

They must have a forgiving landowner and neighbors if they all allow that much noise late at night—much like himself.

Now _that_ was an interesting idea.

Was this...this—_The_ Cellist—anything like him?

Of course not intellectually but Sherlock had never really compared himself to those he tried to observe and calculate.

He knew The Cellist lived on the third floor, had a strong liking for Bach (currently playing Bach's Cello Suite, No 2. Prelude), stuck to a performing schedule and played at night, and had forgiving neighbors.

He had no idea if there was any meaning to these similarities or not; however, Sherlock knew he had no sort of concentration and it angered him even more.

He is Sherlock Holmes for Christ's sake. It's his job to concentrate. In an irate jump, Sherlock got up from his chair once more to shove his head out the window and yelled, "SHUT _UUUUP_."

The Cellist stopped and Sherlock inwardly smiled in victory. However, on the outside he was as sour as a pickle.

John looked up from his computer screen with a raised eyebrow to say, "Are you always this sore of a loser?"

"A sore loser?"

"Yes. Someone's better than you and it makes you angry."

Sherlock let out a deep laugh. "They're not better than me. It's simply a little bit of Bach. Anyone can play that, really."

John didn't try to put up an argument, knowing that he'd loose anyways so he focused back on his computer screen.

* * *

The next night, John had waved Sherlock goodbye—he was going out for a while—and Sherlock pulled up a chair close to the window. He leaned forward and crossed his legs and waited. The clock started to go past eight thirty and close to eight thirty-five. Almost eight forty. Almost nine.

Now Sherlock was frustrated and confused again.

The Cellist had stuck to this schedule for the better of two weeks and _now_ has decided to stop?

The only thing he could think of doing was picking up his own instrument. He placed it under his chin and grasped the metal end of the bow. With an inward sigh, one of his favorite Bach pieces came to mind.

_As a tribute, a salute. _

The bow hairs rested on the strings and he began with Bach's Violin Partida No. 2, Ciaccona.

The piece ended nearly twenty minutes later.

Sherlock grasped the neck of the instrument and brought it down to his side.

There was no sound of The Cellist.

He would not admit that this disappointed him, just a little.

* * *

A few mornings later, Sherlock would wake up to a faint baritone melody knocking at his bedroom window. Usually, he was a heavy sleeper but this got him up and out from under the sheets.

His clock read seven thirty.

He pulled on his dressing gown and ran towards the living room and shoved open one window. He, once more, stuck his head out the window, to listen.

It was obvious the sound was still coming from the third floor. The Cellist had moved their sitting position, though, as the sound came from farther within the building, rather than close to a window.

Sherlock frowned.

Then from the street a black car had pulled up and honked loudly.

The Cellist abruptly halted—a small squeak emitted from the rosin-covered strings.

Sherlock gripped the window ledge and began to count. _This _is when The Cellist would be finally revealed!

_One second. Two seconds. Three Seconds….Ten seconds….Fifteen seconds._

From ground level, a hooded figure came running out, biting into an apple, and ducked into the car.

"Aha! I'm so close!"

"I thought you didn't have any cases right now?" John came in, walking towards the kitchen to fetch a cuppa coffee. He rubbed sleep from his eyes.

"The Cellist!"

"You've gave them a name?"

"What—yes."

"Ohhh-kay." John came back out with a large mug in hand and leaned against the desk. "Well. I know you want to tell me. Go on then."

"How long do you think it takes to lock a door?"

John gave him a questioning look and Sherlock urged him on by raising his eyebrows higher.

"Um..Maybe a few seconds?"

"Yes. The Cellist took almost twenty seconds to get down here. They locked the door, which tells me they are alone. No need to lock the door when someone is already home. Before they came down, they had been playing their cello and when their ride arrived, they immediately honked their horn, not bothering to wait."

"So they were in a hurry?"

"Yes, and they were eating an apple on their way out. No time for a sit down to eat."

"Alright. So?"

"So, they were running late for work. They wore an apron and trainers, built for comfort. Need to when you're on your feet all day."

"They're a waiter, then?"

"Most likely. Having a work schedule week by week, that'd explain their playing schedule…"

"Sherlock, why don't you just go over there and introduce yourself."

"No, that's stupid." Sherlock sank back into his chair and back into silence.

"Right, my mistake." John drank from his coffee.

* * *

**A/N2: I know Bach is hard. It's hard BUT I FREAKIN LOVE IT TO PIECES. **


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hello dearies! Thank you again for taking a read at this and to those who've added me to your alerts and have reviewed and such. **

**And a special thank you to TheGirlWhoImagined! They added me into their Sherlock community-OC Romancing (Oc sherlock stories y'all). I've never been added to a community before so I felt super duper special. 3 **

**FWI, this is hell week for me. I'm getting ready to move into my apartment so please be patient with me. I want to try my best to keep this story going once classes start again but it'll be on the far back burner. Anyways, please enjoy!**

* * *

A week later, John and Sherlock took cover from a rainstorm in a corner bookstore and café. As per usual, they sat by the window.

They'd been working on another case and were following a trail that had suddenly gone cold. John was hungry and Sherlock needed to collect his thoughts.

John perused a tabletop menu and Sherlock folded his hands in front of his face to think.

A few minutes later, a woman returned with two cups of warm tea. When she'd set down his cup from her left hand, Sherlock noticed the white rough finger pads. She'd also worn a black brace around her wrist. Sherlock chose to tuck that bit of information away for later.

* * *

A few days later, after the case was finished and John was working back at the clinic, Sherlock decided to return to that same café for another look.

He remembered a woman with a wrist brace. If he was lucky, this woman would fit the bill of The Cellist. Many times, performers and musicians suffer injuries from over use, especially on the wrists and back for cellists. And string players almost always had a patch of rough, thick—almost white—padding on the fingers of their left hand.

Sherlock sat at the same table and looked at his own fingers. The calluses weren't as thick as they once were but, because of recent playing, they started to grow back.

He checked the clock on his mobile; it was roughly the same time as when the two of them had come in before—just after three. The shop was at a slow point in the day and he was one of few customers there.

An older woman came to him first.

"What can I get for you today?"

"Just coffee, thanks." Sherlock said with a weak smile.

He was looking around the shop. Towards the back of the café, a woman came out with a bus tub—she was clearing away tables and wiping things down. She had on the same wrist brace.

His tea was brought out. Sherlock silently watched her as he sipped at the cup.

Her blonde hair was pulled back and the loose strands hung in front of her face and her eyes—blue, he'd assume—were always down at the tables, as if concentrating or simply lost in thought. Her nimble fingers picked away at the objects on the tables and, as she was wearing a skirt that day, Sherlock could indeed see by her calves that she'd been a waitress for a long time.

A small stain—probably coffee—showed she had been working many morning shifts and had yet to do laundry. She stood up straighter and bended and twisted her back and released a sigh. Another ailment of a cellist: bad back problems.

Sherlock still wasn't entirely sure, though.

As a test, he decided to leave a small note on the napkin.

_Your playing is quite good. Maybe something other than Bach next time? _

__Sherlock finished his cup and slid the napkin under the edge of the mug, slipping out of the cafe in silence.

* * *

The next morning, Sherlock was already awake to see if he could hear anything. He sat eagerly in his leather chair, his legs perched beneath him, wrapped in his dressing gown.

A small smile crept on his face when the music started again. It was a slow, somber melody. Definitely not Bach—much more of the romantic style.

Of course there were the odds The Cellist decided on their own to make a change.

* * *

He'd return to the café a day later. This time his note read:

_"La Muse et le Poète" op 132 Camille Saint Saëns. 8:30. Are you familiar?_

* * *

Later that night, Sherlock found his own copy of the piece—part of the repertoire he'd once been required to learn. He dusted it off and opened the front page. Then he waited again.

The hands on his watch slowly crept to eight thirty and then he began.

In his mind, the orchestra began the piece. After just the right amount of rests, Sherlock entered.

He hadn't played the piece in a while so he was a little rusty. It still sounded gorgeous, to him. The piece was quite lovely.

Across the street, he could hear The Cellist respond with their low, vibrating entrance and Sherlock smiled widely.

He'd found them! The Cellist.

The tone of The Cellist for this piece was outstanding. Although some people would argue he'd had no heart, it made his heart wretch inside.

His fingers slid back and forth on the black ebony board, his bow bouncing and sliding from string to string, note to note.

Then the two of them came into unison and Sherlock's breath hitched. He hadn't played with another individual for _years_ and it felt so refreshing. Like being introduced to an old friend yet having new life breathed into him. His mind was floating on a wave of euphoria and endorphins and the hum of his body became slow and relaxed.

With the sway of the melody, Sherlock found himself shifting his weight from foot to foot and wondered if The Cellist was sitting in her own chair, rocking back and forth or bobbing her head with each melodic sentence.

When the piece ended, he'd wish it hadn't. He looked down at his fingers on his left hand—lines from his strings dug through the callous and it felt _wonderful_. He needed to play more often.

"That was—fantastic." John and a woman were standing in the doorway, slightly dumbfounded.

"Oh, you're back." Sherlock frowned. He set down his violin in its case and began to loosen the bow.

"Yes, and this is Lisa." The woman at John's side reached out to shake his hand.

He took hold of it and gave it a quick jiggle. "Lovely, I'm sure." Then he retreated back into the privacy of his own room.

Sherlock didn't understand why he'd felt so…energized and lively! He'd only felt this way when he'd find a case—and a good case: one of those cases that made him actually _think._ One that didn't waste his time.

But he knew he wanted more of it. He had grown accustomed to listening to The Cellist from his living room window and, now that he experienced playing with them, he craved more of it. It felt essential and his fingers were already craving feeling the strings biting into the flesh under his fingertips.

There were so very few of any of his desires that he gave into. This one gnawed away at the innards of his stomach and it growled and tossed and turned, just as Sherlock did in his sleep that night.

* * *

The next few days he'd been distracted from another case; however, he didn't fail to notice the cello playing. This time, The Cellist chose to play in the early evening, close to around dinner time.

Sherlock tried his hardest to stay focused on this case. If he didn't get this one soon, Mycroft would be on _his _case. His fingers still itched to pick up his violin, but his stomach had settled from the night before and his boredom defiantly receded.

* * *

The next day, both he and John waited in the corner café. Sherlock was in the middle of his thoughts and John in the middle of his lunch.

The blonde waitress with the wrist brace—The Cellist—came up to them.

She stopped in front of Sherlock, her arms crossed in front of her chest.

"It's you." Her soft voice, barely a whisper, broke Sherlock from his trance. The corner of Sherlock's lips raised into a smirk.

"You're The Cellist, then?" Sherlock heard John ask her as the phone in his pocket vibrated.

_My office. Now. –MH_

_Damn you, Mycroft. _Sherlock's smirk faded away and shrunk into a frown. "Come on, John." Sherlock stood up and walked past the woman.

He could hear the confusion in John's voice. "What? Now? But I thought—."

"My dearest brother is calling."

"Oh, um, sorry." John's chair scraped on the floor. "Um, welcome to the neighborhood."

Sherlock's smirked returned.

* * *

After meeting with Mycroft, Sherlock needed to use the lab at St. Barts to analyze the chemical compound of fertilizer he'd found on the victim's boot. Molly was there, of course, and asked him out for coffee again.

Of course, Sherlock knew what was going on but really, it bored him. Coffee and small talk bored him.

That's why he'd rather choose to stick his eye down a microscope and watch organisms and observe structural compositions in small petri dishes.

What he found really had excited him, more than the idea of going out for coffee, anyways. The fertilizer contained a chemical that released toxins when it was wet. Whenever the gardener—the victim—would water the plants, they'd slowly be infected with a deadly toxin. It was slow, deliberate, and systematic.

And quite eloquent, he admitted.

Sherlock left St. Barts, Molly giving him another awkward wave goodbye, hailed a taxi, and got to 221B in no time.

Eager to tell John the newest development, he ran up the stairs to their flat. But then he smelt something different. It was fresh and clean, like fresh laundry mixed with femininity, like a soft flowery smell.

Sherlock slowed his pace and walked up the second small set of stairs and into their flat.

Sitting in the mixed chaos of the room was John and the woman from the café, in his chair.

"Oh, Sherlock!" John stood up upon seeing him enter, as did the woman—The Cellist. "She just popped over. Thought it'd be best to actually introduce herself since… well…you know."

"Yes, John, thank you." Sherlock began to peel off his scarf and his eyes shifted back over to The Cellist.

"I'm Anna. It's nice to finally meet you, Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

**Also, I'm not trying to say Molly sucks. I actually really love Molly. She's adorable and I ship Sherlolly all the way!**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thanks to TheGirlWhoImagined, sneakysnakes, and 88dragon06 for the wonderful reviews! And thanks to those who've added me to their alerts. When I get these notifications, I pretty much pee my pants. Really, you've no idea who happy they make me. It lets me know I'm writing something that's at least okay. **

**Anyways, enjoy! I'll try to publish again before the end of the week so stay tuned!...get it? Cuz it's The Cellist. And you tune it? Never mind. **

**I don't own anything but Anna and Darlene. :)**

* * *

Both John and The Cellist—Anna, Sherlock reminded himself—returned to the two chairs they had previously been sitting in and Sherlock sat centered on the couch. The two chatted over tea and Sherlock mostly sat quiet and observed.

Anna had already mentioned she'd been out of the conservatory, a degree in Cello Performance with a slue of minors—composition and art. This was clear to Sherlock, as there was nothing scientific about her.

The only other woman Sherlock could properly compare her to is Molly and she was entirely scientific and proper; her hair had usually been pulled tightly away from her face with no loose strands; her clothes chosen for comfort and functionality but not necessarily for style; nails always trimmed short and clean; finally, Molly was always organized, as her profession demanded of her.

However, this Anna was quite different from this type. Her hair, still slightly damp from a fresh shower, started to dry in soft waves that hung past her shoulders; she'd put on a white shirt and patterned skirt, which a few black cat hairs clung onto, along with a pair of simple flats; earrings dangled down by her jaw and a silver chain around the neck flashed when the light hit it right. It was nothing too flashy but it was current with the time's fashion and showed she cared what they thought of her. She had made an effort before she came to visit.

"Studied abroad a semester at Berkley in Boston…..," Sherlock heard her say to John.

Her wrist brace was off and it showed a faint strip of white skin—possibly a watch or bracelet. When her hands came to settle in her lap, there was also a small strip of white skin on her left ring finger. So there it was. Her secret?

Recently engaged and broke it off? Recently divorced?

And then it dawned on him.

She'd come back from abroad, back to her daily life at home. Only it wasn't the same; he'd changed. He'd moved on with another woman and that's why she'd moved on her own.

"If you ever need help with anything, don't be afraid to ask. Right Sherlock?"

"What—oh, yes." John drew him away from his observation.

The Cellist turned her attention over to Sherlock with a petite smile.

"Sherlock? Why didn't you come introduce yourself at my flat? I mean, those notes were interesting and all but…well, I don't understand." Anna gave out a small laugh.

"Wasn't worth my time." He blatantly stated. He then picked up his teacup and looked at the loose leaves on the bottom.

"Um….oh…," Anna eyes shifted downward and Johns eyebrows went up high. His mouth gaped like a fish before an awkward silence settled in.

"Well." John was still wide eyed and Sherlock still sat unperturbed. "Who's for more tea? Something stronger?"

* * *

Anna had left a few hours earlier and Sherlock continued on with his life; nothing changed. He lay on the couch, computer on his lap. He'd had the free time so he'd chosen to invest it in updating his blog. He wanted to put his findings up on the fertilizer.

John, however, was different. When Anna left, he'd even walked her down to the front door. When he came back, John kept shooting over strange looks. A few times, it seemed he was ready to voice his thoughts but then decided against it and then returned to whatever he was doing.

Finally, Sherlock had enough of watching him flounder in his turmoil.

"What is it, John?" He turned his head away from the computer screen.

"Couldn't you _not_ be yourself for just a few hours?" His arms flew to his side.

"Why would I be?"

"Anna is a very nice woman and she _could have_ been a friend. I'll tell you what, you leave a hell of a first impression."

"You of all people know that, John." Sherlock's brow wrinkled. "Was it something I said?"

"You told her she wasn't worth your time." John rolled his eyes and plopped into his own chair. "That's not exactly the best way to get to know anyone." John picked up the newspaper and began reading the front page.

Sherlock laid his head back.

_Did it really matter to him if they ever bothered talking again?_

Not particularly, no. To be frank, he'd found their conversation to be a little dull. It was much more stimulating to play music with her.

Ah! Perhaps that would mend it a little.

Sherlock got up and grabbed his violin from the case. He tightened the bow, slowly and methodically added a fresh coat of rosin onto the hair and placed the wooden body onto his left shoulder.

Meditation from Thais, by a French composer, came to his mind and his fingers simply went. Almost mindlessly, he played. He'd played the piece so many times it came out with ease.

Somewhat, he'd hoped that The Cellist—Anna, he chastised himself again—would see it as an invitation. Or an apology. Or maybe she'd find in to be an insult. However she decided to interpret it, Sherlock just wanted to keep playing music with her. He'd just started finding a way to ease his boredom and he wasn't ready to give that up yet.

It had been almost an hour after he finished the piece and Sherlock kept listening for any sound coming from across the street.

There was nothing and was driving him insane.

The room had grown dark, John had already left for his room, and Sherlock stared at the wall. The violin still rested in his lap and his fingers absentmindedly plucked at an old tune.

His mobile vibrated in his pocket.

_That was a lovely piece, though, it doesn't fit you.—Anna _

**_Why's that?—SH_**

_It's far too sweet.—Anna_

Bitterness? Or perhaps she found a backbone and found a little sass of her own.

**_And what would be better?—SH_**

_Something Russian. Perhaps Bartok's Romanian Folk Dances.—Anna_

Sherlock thought a minute.

**_Bartok isn't Russian.—SH_**

_I know that. Still suits you, though.—Anna_

Sherlock had never heard the piece before so he searched it on YouTube. She was right. It was heavy and dark. In some parts it growled while other parts it was dainty and barely audible.

**_Good choice.—SH_**

* * *

Anna was working one day at the café, about a week after she and Sherlock had last spoken. It had been a busy morning; the rain outside was bringing everyone in. Once it slowed down, Anna and the other woman she worked with, Darlene, were wiping down the counters in back.

"Hey Anna. That man that comes in here—the one with the long coat. Do you talk with him much?"

Anna put a stack of dishes in their place.

"Sometimes. Why?"

"I'd stay away from him if I were you, dear."

Stopping what she was doing, Anna placed a hand on her hip.

"I've heard things about him. He's not the rights sorts. He's just….He's not normal, Anna. He's always after trouble."

Just then, Sherlock and John walked in and had already taken their normal seat. Darlene was already on her way out to them with a couple of menus and Anna reached for her purse in the corner.

She pulled out a green booklet she'd been saving for the right moment and this seemed like the best opportunity.

Darlene came back to the waitress' station to hand over their order to the cook.

"Darlene, could you give this to him?" The older woman gave her a strange look as she poured coffee. "Please."

Darlene snatched it away and tucked it under her arm. "Don't say I didn't warn you," She said before returning out front.

Anna was supposed to be washing dishes in back but she couldn't resist watching their expressions as Darlene gave Sherlock the booklet.

"Was told to give this to you." She could hear Darlene explain.

Sherlock took a drink from his coffee and gave a soft smile as his eyes bounced over the green front page. Anna hoped it was from the note she'd left him:

_I promise it's worth your time. _


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Again I am simply overwhelmed by your guys' response! I never actually expected anyone to read my story. So you all make me quite happy! So thank you, everyone. **

**Like I said, I'll be moving into my apartment this weekend. I will try to post something on Friday. If not, I probably wont well into next week. :/ So I'll try for all you lovely folks. **

**Finally, for this chapter especially, please take the time to listen to the pieces I mention. Not only are they simply wonderful pieces, but they can 'improve the reading experience'. :P And this one is very long compared to the past chapters. ENJOY!**

**I own nothing but Anna and Darlene. **

* * *

Sherlock and John finished another case, once again and Sherlock grew grateful for the little surprise Anna—or the other woman at the shop, rather—had given him. Yes, the booklet that he'd been given had so far proven to be quite the distraction from his boredom.

Enclosed in the booklet was the violin part of Ravel's _Sonata for Violin_ and Cello. Tucked inside the binding of this was also Bella Bartok's _Romanian Folk Dances._

It made Sherlock excited, a little bit. But he didn't show it.

In his free time, Sherlock had chosen to look at the Bartok piece first. He had completed the first run through—it was no easy task (his mind was still dusting off the musical cobwebs)—and he couldn't help but admit Anna was right. This piece, compared to the Meditation he'd played before for her, suited him much better. It bit into the string and showed raw energy.

Those pieces were the best, really.

This also applied for the Ravel. It was a far cry from Beethoven or Mozart; much less systematic and predictable. Ravel, after all, had been traumatized after fighting in a war, ultimately having a great effect on his music.

Nonetheless, Anna was correct once more. (Not always something Sherlock can admit twice in a row). This piece had proven to be quite the undertaking and he even found himself grateful for having it to distract himself from the utter dullness of the rest of the world.

It had been a few weeks since Sherlock had been given the booklet and was feeling fairly confident in his playing. The violin part, mind you, is seemingly easy but once the cello's voice was to be added in, well, that's another story.

Sherlock had become anxious to test it out with her. He had already completed two other cases in these few weeks and Sherlock was already becoming fidgety.

One night, Sherlock sat in his chair, the Bartok piece running around in his thoughts and his foot lightly tapped against the wooden floor to the silent tempo.

John was sitting at the desk, most likely writing up their latest case for his blog.

Now that he'd had the music and had practiced it, Sherlock wasn't quite sure what to do. Go find her? Wait till she came to him?

"Want to go out tonight?" John peeked over from his computer monitor with his always honest smile.

"What happened to Lisa, was it?"

John's expression then was quite taken back. "You remembered her name." Sherlock Holmes was known to be heartless but he still cared and tried to remember. Well, sometimes.

His mobile vibrated on the table to his right.

"She'd like to meet you again. Last time wasn't really a proper introduction, really."

_Ready when you are_, the screen on his phone read.

Sherlock gave a broad grin. At least someone was on the same page as him.

"Sorry, John. I'll have to decline." He got up and began putting together his music, and putting away the violin in its case.

"Where are you off to?" Again, John seemed quite taken back. Not because he declined the invitation but because he had a legitimate reason besides 'I don't want to'.

"Just across the street. Don't mind the noise. Evening, John." Sherlock strode out the door with the music tucked under his arm and his case in hand.

John was left sitting at the desk, his eyebrows raised to the ceiling and left speechless; he wasn't quite sure how to take in Sherlock's last sentence before he had disappeared down the stairs.

* * *

Anna had been actually fairly busy these past few weeks. She'd been called into work early on several occasions—one of the bus boys caught ill—and that left little time for recreation. But she'd managed to find a way to practice, whether it was in a practice room at a university, sometimes even during slow periods at the café, or she'd do it from memory and makeshift her right wrist as the neck and pretend.

Alas, that is the downfall of being a professional musician. Before having an actual paying and_ consistent _job, she'd have to find other means of income. This, unfortunately, meant less of her music.

Really, this was why Anna was _especially_ glad to have met Sherlock; he gave her a reason to play.

Despite Darlene's warnings about him, there hadn't been much of any problems, besides his slight insult to her when they'd first met. Sherlock hadn't been exactly overtly friendly, either. But there was nothing wrong with that. People are people, simple as that.

Tonight, a Friday, Anna had finished work early and made it back to her flat before dark. She'd eaten, watched the telly a little, and had showered. She'd finally had the chance to relax and wind down.

Anna was sitting on her couch, her black cat Felix wrapped up on her legs that were outstretched before her. Then her gaze came to rest on her cello—her baby—that was propped up in the corner on its wooden stand and she gave out a soft sigh.

She picked up her phone and sent a text to Sherlock.

Hopefully he'd reply in the morning and they'd be able to play this weekend!

Anna got up off the couch, Felix jumping off, and headed into the bathroom to ready herself for bed. She grabbed her toothbrush and toothpaste, put on a small glob, and began brushing.

The reflection in the mirror looking back at her looked like a messy slob but Anna didn't care, really. She was already in her pajamas—a pair of sweat pants cut off at the knee and a tight tank top—, her hair was in a messy bun on the crown of her head, and light circles settled in under her eyes from the busy few weeks. Nothing a good night's sleep couldn't fix.

The buzzer at her front door rang when she was still in mid brush.

_Who in the right mind? _

Anna pressed the com button. "…Hello?"

"Evening, Anna." She heard from the other end.

_Oh. Him. That explains it. _

"Evening, Sherlock. Is there something I can help you with?" She scrubbed away at the back molars.

"You said you were ready. If this is inconvenient, I—"

"No. It's fine." She banged her head lightly against the wall. Then there was a slight pause.

"Anna, I heard that."

An exasperated, minty huff blew past her lips. "Just come on up."

* * *

Sherlock and Anna were gathered in a small grouping, Anna sitting and Sherlock standing just across from her. She straddled the body of her cello between her legs and Sherlock held up his own instrument between his shoulder and jaw. Their music was arranged and bows on the strings in playing position.

Anna's dark blue eyes looked up to his, waiting the signal to start.

Sherlock closed his eyes and internalized the tempo. With a soft breath, he began and dragged the bow softly across. The sound he created was smooth and almost ethereal.

Anna followed suit and mimicked his tempo and character.

Playing with her in person was multitudes times better; here, in the same room, it was as if they were one playing musical instrument. With each phrase, they breathed together, they watched each other, they mimicked each other, and both played with the same thrilling passion.

When Sherlock dug into the string and accelerated the tempo, Anna followed and replied with her own juicy slurred growl. When Sherlock's adrenaline pumped and energized him, Anna met his enthusiasm.

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath into his lungs and he found himself bouncing from foot to foot with energy. When he opened his eyes, he could see Anna, too, was saying with her cello and bobbing her head to the liveliness of the piece.

When Sherlock backed down and returned to the original spacey tune, Anna was able to calm the tone down.

For once, it was so nice to be with someone as his equal in something.

When the last note came, Anna's dark eyes looked up to him and waited and followed his body actions.

He closed his eyes again. With a final sigh and bob of his scroll*, they were finished.

When Sherlock opened his eyes again, he briefly observed Anna. She seemed to be in a slight state of euphoria, as well.

"Well, wasn't that fun." Anna grinned with a peaceful guise.

Sherlock felt funny. He'd never felt this way after playing before. It was like his head had gone fuzzy and it made him want to…smile. How strange.

"Have you looked at the Bartok?" Anna got up and made her way to the kitchen.

"Yes, I have." Sherlock tucked his instrument away under his arm and began to look around the apartment a little more.

Paintings—personal creations—hung and stacked around in corners, bookshelves filled with music, a small black cat, various fictional books scattered through out. All confirming his previous assumptions.

"Well, would you mind playing it a little? I really do love Bartok." Anna came back with a steaming mug. She sat down on the couch and crossed her legs beneath her.

"What happened to Bach?" Sherlock asked from over his shoulder.

"It's just an affair. Don't tell, though." Her eyes twinkled from the brim of her mug. "Go on then. Stop stalling!" She waved to his music.

Sherlock began the well-rehearsed piece by himself. Honestly, it was a little strange for him to be playing for another person. Never had he played the violin to simply perform for an audience but it was for his own personal benefit.

Having Anna sitting on the couch watching him was a little strange for him, too. It was rare that he was on the opposite end of the scrutinizing end.

Occasionally, he'd see her nod her head from the corner of his eye, like he'd done something right or something she'd approve of. For once, performing around someone of the same—or higher—caliber of himself almost made him nervous.

_Almost. _

By the time the fourth movement of the piece came, Sherlock was so entirely focused in the piece, though, that he stopped noticing Anna. It took far more concentration on his fingers and muscle coordination to produce the correct sound.

The fourth lead into the fifth movement with ease and the notes flew under his fingertips. There was hardly even time to breath before the piece was done. Upon striking the final note and releasing, Sherlock's fingertips and hand felt numb—from the adrenaline, he'd assumed. His heart was pumping fast beneath his chest and the muscle of his right forearm finally began to relax again.

He put away the violin in its case and expected to hear some sort of evaluation from Anna.

When he looked over, he could see that she'd fallen asleep. Her legs were still crossed and her head had fallen against the back of the couch.

Not quite sure what to do, Sherlock took a seat in one of her chairs. He rested his elbow against the armchair and held his jaw in hand and looked at her. He looked at her apartment. He looked her cat, which was staring up at him from behind the couch.

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what sort of….friendship they had together. It wasn't exactly conventional, he'd think, based off different friendships he'd observed of John's. Usually it involved small talk and coffee and going out. But they hardly talked.

That's not true. They talked plenty with their body, as good musicians do. And they played music. The two of them always seemed to be in some sort of musical limbo.

Sherlock didn't mind it much. It was quite fun, actually.

Though, there was one thought that concerned him: he almost considered putting a throw blanket over her before he turned out the lights and left.

On the way down the stairs, Sherlock was shaking his head and blaming this weird notion on the lack of sleep.

* * *

**A/N.2: So I wasn't quite sure about this chapter. Any thoughts? Ideas? Just let me know :3**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hello, dearies. I am incredibly sorry for not updating in such a long time! I moved into my apartment and school started back up and life caught up with me. You know how it goes. But am still all grateful for you all! Even though I haven't posted, you are still leaving me reviews and adding me to your alert lists. I was absolutely tickled pink by the review from darkestfear. I squirmed so hard in my seat! **

**I've been having a lot of late nights from school work and such so I haven't been able to think about this story quite as much. I'm not sure what I think about this chapter-at least the end of it-so don't hesitate to let me know if it's horrible or if you love it or somewhere in between!**

**As always, search YouTube for the music I mention. It'll let everything make so much sense!**

**Disclaimer: I created Anna. **

* * *

With what he'd felt the other night and after his talk with Mycroft, Sherlock felt hesitant to return to Anna's flat. He really wasn't sure if he could trust himself; it all seemed like new territory, anyways. And like Mycroft said, sentiment is for idiots. Although John never failed to remind him when he made a complete ass of himself, Sherlock would never go _that _far.

Sherlock had gotten a few more invitations from Anna over to her flat to play again. However, he'd chosen to ignore them. He was focused on this new case, after all. Or perhaps that's only what he told himself.

Honestly, the past few weeks started to take a toll on him. Sherlock's mind was growing wary and a little muddied. It was still hard to concentrate and he found that headaches were becoming a nightly function. His back and shoulders were constantly tight and he wasn't entirely sure what do to about it. So he usually ignored it.

Then there was one night when John came up to him. Sherlock was sitting at their table, reading his computer screen. He was doing a little research for a set of clues he was following. His shoulders hunched a little and a twang tightened in his back—been bothering him for weeks, really.

"Sherlock?" John appeared at his side.

Sherlock replied with a grumble.

"I've a quick question for you."

Again, Sherlock simply replied with a discernable grumble and a nod.

"Well, Lisa is having a hard time now and—"

"You want me out of the way tonight." Sherlock glanced away from the computer and up to John's face. He seemed almost guilty.

"Um… well, yes."

Sherlock rolled his shoulders back and sat up straighter. He gave a slight nod. "Fine."

"Sherlock, are you sure? I know it's the middle of a case and—"

"Yes." He tried to give a bob of his head with his small smile but the pain in his back started to shoot upward. "I'll try my best, John."

He then picked up his phone and sent a message to The Cellist.

_Still free to play?_

* * *

This time when Sherlock came to Anna's flat, she'd been expecting him. There was no surprise and she had been properly prepared. Her clothes were daily causal wear, but by a light perfume of coffee and chips, she'd just gotten off of work. The odds around the flat had been put back in their rightful place and the couch and chair had been pushed to the side to accommodate more for more playing room.

"Hey there, Stranger." Anna had welcomed him in.

Sherlock only nodded to her slightly and walked in, dropping his case down and getting out his instrument.

"Sherlock, is everything alright?" His senses must be dulled as Anna appeared right by his side, her dark eyes examining his face.

"Yes, I'm fine." He tried to giver her an assuring smile but he knew it didn't work. Anna gave him a weary glance over before grabbing for her cello. "Something light tonight, perhaps?"

Sherlock set down his bow and handed her sheet music that had been tucked away under his arms. Anna grabbed it and set it on her stand. She began flipping through it.

"Hm," She flipped through to the end of the piece. "I've never played this one before. Ravel. Nice choice, though. Let's try it then." Anna gave Sherlock a quick smile.

He only nodded and tucked the bout of his violin under his chin. The muscles in his left shoulder protested and tightened up but he chose to ignore it anyways. Sherlock waited as Anna started the piece.

Her part was low, dreary, and heavy. As he closed his eyes, counting the beat internally, it reminded him of a rainy day. Many people associate rain with melancholy but there is always the potential for beauty in it. Even Sherlock could admit to that.

When it was his chance to join in, Sherlock continued to ignore the shooting pain that traveled through his arm up towards his fingertips.

With the ease of a well practiced musician, his fingers bounced on the fingerboard with ease and his bow smoothly traveled across all of the strings. As his hand slip up higher on the ebony fingerboard, so his breathing seemed to grow deeper.

Sherlock noticed Anna's eyes had closed and her head began to droop down with each heavy brushstroke against the strings she took. Her feet began to rock back and forth.

Then, he and The Cellist reached a climax in the piece and Sherlock was leaning forward almost onto his toes. The cello grumbled into its lowest tone and Sherlock replied by digging into his own string and a bitter growl came out.

His fingers soon started to tingle. Still he ignored it.

Then, the two of them were back in the beginning melody. It was the calm after a terrible storm, a dream after a violent nightmare.

Sherlock began to stand up straighter, Anna also sitting up in a regular and straight position. He could see The Cellist watching him, his body naturally sending out signals to slow down the piece: body swaying, calmer breathing, and small nods and bobs of his upper torso.

Once more, he closed his eyes, this time as his bow dragged across the string to sound the final long ending note.

Sherlock quickly brought the instrument down and set it in the case. He then rolled his shoulders back, cracked his fingers, and groaned—much louder than he would've liked.

"Are you okay, Sherlock?" He could hear the endpin of the cello being drawn within to the wooden body.

"I'm fine. It's nothing." His back was still turned to her and he rolled his left shoulder in its socket. The underlying muscle tensed up more at the strain and he tried to stop himself from wincing.

Anna had walked around to his side and Sherlock knew that he was being observed.

"Sherlock, do you ever stretch?"

"What?"

"Do you ever stretch? Before you play. After you play. Do you stretch?"

"No." He didn't need to think about this answer. It was never a habit he picked up, really.

"That's why you're in so much pain, you idiot!" Anna took Sherlock by the wrist and lead him towards her couch. "Sit down."

He didn't have the energy to put up resistance but when she disappeared behind him, Sherlock's senses began to prick up again.

Then her hands came to his shoulders and the hairs on his neck stood on end while sparks shot to his brain. "What are you doing!"

Sherlock tried to stand up but she grabbed him by the shoulders and sat him abruptly back down. Then, her strong fingers began to knead into his flesh, working deep into the muscle and tissue.

The pain almost immediately began to subside and Sherlock let himself sink further into his seat.

"Stretching warms up the muscle and prevents injury." Anna's fingers treated his shoulders like bread dough and gradually made their way to the base of his neck, toying with the small hairs there.

"Hm," was all Sherlock felt the need to reply.

"And you should do it every day, else you want to feel like this all the time."

_If he always got treated like this, who cares? _

Sherlock chastised himself. Again, his brother was proving to be right. No. Just little slips in his thought process here and there, is all it was.

"Where else do you hurt?"

Sherlock's head had fallen against the back of the sofa and it felt like it required all of his energy to bring it back up. "Fingers and wrists." His left hand came up for a brief moment and then it fell back onto his lap.

Again his alerts were peaked when Anna came around and kneeled at his feet to take his hand in her own. Tingling shots were running through his fingers. Sherlock wasn't used to people touching him and he wasn't quite sure what to think of it. However, he knew it wasn't an unwelcomed feeling.

"Tell me more." She rubbed her thumbs in his palm.

"Fingers go numb when I play. Wrist is in pain."

Then Anna's head fell a little. "Sherlock, you should probably see a doctor about this."

"I'll mention it to John, I suppose." The right corner of his mouth rose and he rolled his eyes a little.

"This is serious!" Anna slapped at his calf. "You could have tendinitis. For a musician, that's a serious matter. Sometimes, it's completely debilitating."

Sherlock's mouth flattened.

"We shouldn't be playing as much, I suppose."

Although he didn't outwardly show it, Sherlock was unhappy about that.

* * *

Shortly thereafter, Sherlock returned to 221B and walked past John and his date who were sitting on the sofa, and into his bedroom. He sat down on his bed and stared out the window. When he then rolled his shoulders back, a thought occurred to him: there was no tension in his shoulders for the first time in _weeks._

He had slept well that night.

* * *

_So. There it is._ I'll try to update soon everyone!


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: I am always ALWAYS****_ always_**** astonished by the feedback and how many people add this story to their lists. I'm so happy that you all like this! :D And I couldn't help but laugh at SparkRevolutions's review. Tumblr user? What is air? Just uuuugh. I love you guys! And I'm happy that so many musicians are enjoying this! I was worried I wouldn't portray what I wanted in the right way and give the musicality the justice it deserves. **

**I really hope you like this one! I'm not entirely sure on parts of it but i wanted to get the thoughts out. **

**No music on this one. But I want to try something new. Instead of telling me how you like it, tell me what you would've wanted differently about it. Plot, grammar, word choice, or anything. How can I improve it for you all?**

* * *

Just a few days later, Anna was back at the corner café, resuming her waitressing job. The day had been fairly busy thus far and a moderate clump of bills and change wadded in her apron hit her leg when she walked. Oh, the small perks of being a waitress; carrying cash was rather nice, at times.

Darlene brought a bus tub full of dishes from the front and to the dish rom. "I suppose you didn't listen to me did you?" She asked in passing. "I bet your still seeing that Holmes fellow, aren't you?"

"I'm not seeing anyone." Anna's demeanor darkened a little, though she didn't explain why.

"Just worried about you is all. He's a risky character."

The mobile in her apron vibrated.

_Come over now. _

**I'm at work. **

_It's an emergency. _

_Please. _

Anna rubbed her face a little as weariness began to set in.

"That's him isn't it?" Darlene placed a hand on her wide hip.

"Yeah, it is. And I'm sorry. There's an emergency. Can you handle it here on your own?"

"Yes. Get out of here." She playfully swatted at Anna's arm. "Hope everything is okay!" Darlene yelled as Anna rushed out the front door.

* * *

With a quick cab ride, Anna made it to 221B in less than ten minutes. She'd even tipped the cabby for driving over the limit.

Anna pushed her way through the front door and up the two sets of stairs. Their flat door was pushed open and she ran through. She looked around; there was no sight of struggle, no damage, nothing out of place (more than usual).

"Finally."

Anna spun around to see Sherlock lying on the couch on his stomach. His left cheek was squished into the cushion.

"Sherlock, what's wrong? What's the emergency?" She huffed out, short of breath.

"I need your help." He muffled from the couch cushion.

"Okay. With what?"

"My back." He grumbled and huffed.

"Sherlock, I was at work! You called me from work for an emergency. _This_ is an emergency?" Her hands flopped at her side.

"Yet you came anyways." His tone was exasperated.

Anna let out a sigh. He was right. Of course.

"You didn't play again, did you?" Sherlock closed his eyes and Anna took that as a confirmation. "Why didn't you talk to John about this?"

"He's gone." Sherlock grumbled again.

* * *

John Watson had spent the night over at Lisa's flat. It was a lovely night. They'd had a few drinks, spent the night in, and fell asleep in each others' arms. It was really quite sweet. In circumstances such as this, one would think he would be in a fabulous mood!

He wasn't.

Since he'd arrived at Lisa's place, Mycroft had been texting him.

_We need to talk._

**No. I'm busy. **

A few hours would pass.

_It's important._

**Then find Sherlock.**

A few more hours passed until he'd receive another.

_It's about Sherlock. _

**No.**

* * *

The next morning, John had a late breakfast with Lisa and, after a long shared kiss, John was on his way. Then, his mobile vibrated in his pocket and his mood turned even more fowl.

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

"Get in the car, would you?" Mycroft hung up.

As John exited Lisa's building, he spotted Mycroft's typical sleek black car. He let out a groan and rubbed the bridge of his nose before walking over to the vehicle and got in.

Once John settled, Mycroft motioned for the driver to move forward. Then the two of them sat in silence, buildings sliding past them.

"Mycroft, what do you want." John was becoming frustrated. He just wanted _one _bloody night with his girlfriend.

"My brother has altered his normal habits, quite drastically."

"Is someone watching our flat? Do you have someone watching my flat?" John felt the muscles in his back tense up.

"No. We're not interested in you."

"Oh right, my mistake." John shifted in his seat and crossed his ankles. "If you're so interested in Sherlock, why don't you just talk to him?"

"We both know how that would end, don't we?" Mycroft rolled off his tongue.

"Now, tell me. What is the relationship between my brother and one Miss Anna Carlson?" Mycroft shifted his gaze from out the side window and directly to John's face now.

* * *

"Alright, get on the floor. Can you do that?"

Sherlock groaned as he pushed himself up onto his knees and managed to roll onto the floor. He lay in the same position: face up to one side, palms up, and utterly motionless.

"Okay, well…let's see what helps."

Anna let her purse fall to the ground and she stripped herself of her jacket and apron.

Without any warning, Anna braced herself near the wall and put her full weight on Sherlock's body as she stepped on his back.

"Ugggghhm." He sounded into the floorboards.

Anna gingerly moved from his lower back up to between his shoulder blades. With every few movements, different vertebrae would pop and crack.* She walked her way slowly down to his lower back again and stepped off.

"How's that?" She bent down. Sherlock tried to push off from the ground. As his back arched downward, he groaned again. He fell back flat to the ground.

"Okay. Here, stay there." Anna rolled up her sleeves to her elbows and stood over his still frame. With a quick gulp of courage, Anna straddled her legs on each side, came down to her knees and sat on his very low back.

* * *

What do you mean?" John shook his head, not quite understanding.

"They've been spending an awful lot of time together. Can you explain that?"

"Oh. She plays the cello. They make music together."

Mycroft smirked from the corner of his mouth. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

The meaning of Mycroft's comment took a moment to sink it and John was taken back at the implication. His head quickly shook back and forth again. "No." His hands waved in front of his body. "No, Sherlock doesn't date! He told me that right off."

Mycroft studied John a quick moment and asked, "Am I sensing resentment and jealousy, Dr. Watson?"

"What? What! No!" John's arms waved in front of him faster. "Why does everyone assume I'm gay!"

"It's not my business, I suppose." Mycroft shrugged his shoulders.

"No, it's not." He looked out the window. "And I'm not gay." He quickly added.

Their vehicle pulled up in front of 221B and came to a halt.

"It was a pleasure talking with you, as always."

"Afternoon, Mycroft." John rose from the car and was never happier to be outside of 221B.

It was turning out to be a hell of a day.

John pushed open the front door and started the ascent to his shared flat.

* * *

She could feel Sherlock's muscles contract with her added weight on his own body. Once she began kneading her fingers into them delicately, they loosened up. Like she had before, Anna worked into the tight muscles of his shoulders and neck. Her fingers ran at the base of his hairline and Anna could feel small tremors go through his body.

Anna continued to work at the tight, sore muscles of his shoulders. Many violinists carry pains in their left shoulder. After all, the position of these musicians is not particularly normal.

She could tell when her ministrations began to take clear effect when Sherlock's breathing became deep and small, almost inaudible moans started to come out. It was clear at this point that this was now for enjoyment rather than help. Obviously, she'd already helped through the pain.

Unlike before, Anna was able to reach lower down his back. She began to trail lower and lower. When her fingers fanned out to the side, Anna noticed his muscles tighten up and twitch a little.

Unsure of the reaction, Anna tried the movement again.

"No." Sherlock grunted and a broad grin spread across her cheeks.

"Is someone ticklish right there?"

Sherlock didn't bother answering but grunted again and waited for Anna to beginning kneading at his skin again.

Slowly, at first, Anna worked at the muscles at his mid back. But really, who could resist this? Sherlock Holmes being ticklish!

Anna tested the waters and started to ghost her fingers against his side.

Rapidly, Anna found herself twisted onto her back and Sherlock's weight pressed down on her.

Anna gaped up to him, wide-eyed and speechless.

"I said no."

Then a creak in the floor from behind them sounded.

* * *

_*I have my roommate do this to me all the time. It feels so good!_

**Sorry for all of the breaks but I wasn't entirely sure how to fit it all within the right timeline. Anyways, I hope it at least made you smile. :)**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Thanks everyone for adding me and for leaving reviews! You all make me so happy :D**

**It seems like some of you are tumblr users so feel free to check me out: morethanyourpast I'm all about nerdy things and music. **

**Also, if you ever want to know more about music, what I'm personally up to musically, or just want to chat, feel free to find me on tumblr or leave me a private message! I'd be happy to talk with anyone and everyone. **

**I don't own anything but Anna and Darlene.**

* * *

After his abrupt conversation with Mycroft, John felt disheveled. He didn't exactly understand the on bringing of his choice of topic.

John rounded the corner to the second flight of stairs.

_Sherlock Holmes does NOT date. If he did, I'd know. _

He walked into the doorway and found Sherlock's body pressing Anna's into the floor. Sherlock's face was incredibly close to her own. It was clear that they had been intensely staring at each other yet they both turned their heads to see John.

Sherlock's face appeared as usual, perhaps only slightly frustrated and confused. His hair was disheveled only slightly.

Anna's expression was entirely confused and shocked. Her eyes were wide, her pupils were large black circles, and her mouth was left agape.

John stood in the doorway just a moment longer before throwing his arms to his side and turning back around with out a word.

He got outside the front door to see Mycroft, standing wide legged outside of his vehicle and a slight smug across his face.

"Like you knew about this."

Mycroft only need to raise an eyebrow slightly higher and still silently watched John.

"Oh, shut up."

John briskly walked back towards Lisa's flat.

* * *

Once John left, Anna noticed, neither of them had bothered to move from their position. Anna was lying spread eagle-legged on her back and Sherlock remained in between her limbs.

In just a few seconds of unease, Anna cleared her throat. "No tickling. Got it."

Sherlock quickly rose from his position, smoothed out the wrinkled fabric of his shirt and extended his hand down to Anna.

She took his offer and then also wiped her shirt off.

"Maybe I should go." Anna shuffled her feet a little.

There was a silence and Anna had hoped that Sherlock would maybe break the reverberating stillness in the room. He said nothing and Anna turned on her heals to leave the room.

"No." Sherlock stammered a little, his voice raspy. He cleared his throat. "We could…..talk." It sounded more like a question, as if he was unaccustomed to what 'normal' friends do in the time together. He tried to force a smile but it turned out to be more gum than teeth.

Anna stopped and turned to face him. When another short silence settled in briefly, he stepped aside and gestured to one of the chairs.

Anna gave a small smile before taking his offer.

Sherlock then sat in the opposite chair. His legs were in a wide legged, relaxed stance and both hands gripped the arms of the chair. He seemed tense and uncomfortable but Anna tried to ignore it.

She sat with her legs crossed at the knee and her purse was clutched to her chest. With the silence, Anna was able to take a few quick glances around. There was nothing that stated a definite profession. Everything was sporadic yet appeared to have their own place.

"Sherlock, where do you work?" Anna took a few more glances around the room, noting a yellow smiley face prominently on one wall.

"Here." His head bobbed slightly, as if expecting her question.

"_What _do you do, then?"

"Consulting detective."

It was clear Sherlock was bored with the small talk so Anna didn't press on any deeper.

"You know, Darlene—a woman whom I work with—said I should stay away from you. She says you're no good."

"Yet here you are." Sherlock's eyes studied her face.

"Listening to people was never my strong suit." Anna smiled and looked down to her fingers at her lap.

"What do you think?"

"Of you?" Sherlock nodded to urge her on.

Anna fidgeted with her fingers some more and found her lower lip between her teeth.

"Well," She looked up to his eyes. "You're not as bad as everyone says. I think you're nice."

"How generous of you." Sherlock sounded bored again.

"What else do you do?" Anna asked, eager to alleviate his apparent lack of interest. However, it was to no avail.

"I'm very invested in my work." His mood seemed to turn sour with each minute. He cradled his brow in his fingertips.

"You have time to play your violin with me."

Then there was a beat in their conversation briefly.

"You know it's strange how little we know about each other." Anna tried to start a conversation again. "Besides being musical, of course."

"That's hardly true," he scoffed back to her.

"Really?" Her voice rose a little in disbelief. "You can't possibly know anything about me beyond my apartment number and that—"

"You are a cellist, been playing for just over 15 years now. Probably didn't enjoy it when you first picked it up—most children don't when their parents make them." Sherlock began to rattle off and Anna could feel her cheeks grow flush. "A family member is also a musician, thus the pressure you've endured to meet their expectations.

"And there's that: the longing desire to meet their expectations and obtain their approval. So you've pushed yourself. Yet here you are, working at a shop making minimum wage. It's clearly a temporary job and not something that was expected.

"You've gotten the degree but not the dream job so what went wrong? There's a white band of skin on your left hand—it was more noticeable when we first met—which was where a ring once sat. But now it's disappeared. You came back home from school, expecting to be embraced in your lover's arms but you were betrayed.

"He left you for another and you were left to find a flat on your own. And here we are." Sherlock's icy gaze came to settle on Anna's face. "That's plenty to go on, don't you think."

Anna could feel the stinging of salty tears come in her eyes. It was beyond her control to contain them and a few slipped out. His eyes continued to watch her as she sat there for a few moments longer. She could feel the muscles her face tense up and blood rush to her head, clouding her hearing. Anna squeezed her eyes shut tight before standing up.

"How _dare_ you." Anna seethed.

In one large step, Anna stood before Sherlock and slapped him across the face, hard.

"He didn't leave me." Anna said between her fast, shallow breaths.

Sherlock, in shock himself, cradled his right cheek in hand and looked up to Anna. Her posture grew bent and her fists were clenched at her sides.

"He died." Her voice was barley a whisper but it thundered in Sherlock's ears.

With that, Anna snatched her purse and ran from the room. Sherlock could hear her sniffs and cries as she exited the building.

Sherlock remained in his chair, still taken back from Anna's actions. That was not something he'd ever expect from her. She was too docile and calm to display that much anger and frustration and desperation!

Clearly, he'd touched a sore spot.

_'Timing, Sherlock,'_ he could hear John's voice rattle in the back of his head.

Once more, Sherlock cradled his head and let out an exasperated moan.

_This_ is why he didn't have friends. Dealing with people and their emotions was just so tedious.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson called from the landing of the stairs, coming nearer towards him. "Who's the woman that ran out? Is she your girlfriend?"

"I don't date—"

"On a good day, she seems lovely. You'll have to introduce her sometime, then."

"Oh, God." Sherlock rubbed his temples.

"What did you do to the poor girl?" Mrs. Hudson rummaged her way through the kitchen and small clings and jingles rang as she opened and closed drawers and cupboards.

"What did _I _do? She slapped me!"

"Probably deserved it, you did." Sherlock shut his mouth. She then came back in a minute later with a warm mug in her hands. "Whatever you did, she sure seemed upset. The poor dear."

Again, this is why Sherlock didn't like people.

Too many feelings involved and it made him uncomfortable.

* * *

**So. There's another update! Constructive criticism, reviews, and the like are all wonderfully accepted. :D 3**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Hello, everyone! I'm so sorry for such a long wait. I've been trying to manage everything in life so I worked to get this one out much sooner for you all. Because I love you. I'm still happy that you all like this so much! I'm still on the fence with this chapter-it's more fluff than anything, I think-but let me know if what you think!**

**I don't own anything but Anna and Darlene.**

* * *

Sherlock remained in his chair. Mrs. Hudson had long gone but she'd started a fire in the hearth before the cold settled in. Its light danced across the finish of Sherlock's violin. It lay in his lap. One hand fingered a made up song across the black fingerboard, the other hand plucked deftly farther down on the strings.

The pain in his hands had deterred him from doing any more than just that and at a time when he needed to play—to clear his mind—it was most frustrating.

The moans of the landing stairs alerted Sherlock's ears.

John peaked his head through the doorway. Then, with both his hands covering his eyes, he walked all the way in.

"Are you decent? May I come in this time?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock growled between his teeth.

"You were lying between her legs, Sherlock." John walked in and dropped into the chair adjacent to him.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as if to say 'so'?

"What else am I supposed to think? You were having a nice chat?"

"We were."

John laughed lightly. "So that's what they're calling it these days." Sherlock didn't respond but looked into the hearth. "Sex."

"Yes, I understand." Sherlock quickly replied. Just because he was known as The Virgin doesn't mean he didn't understand an innuendo.

"What's going on between you two, anyways." John shuffled over and sank heavily into his own chair. The cushions sighed at his weight.

"Nothing." His eyes focused on his fingers.

"Why don't you just tell her you fancy her?"

"I don't." Sherlock flatly stated.

"Don't be so daft." John kicked off his shoes. "The only people I've ever seen you willingly have a decent conversation with is Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, me, and _her_. You can't deny that."

The movements in his fingers stopped, only for a second; John was right. If there was something that bothered Sherlock most it was when he was wrong. What made it worse was that John was correct.

"You make mistakes with women all the time. How do you fix it?"

John let out a breathy laugh and rolled his eyes. "I'll ignore that and pretend you're not such an ass." He settled deeper into the chair. "Are you asking me for relationship advice?"

"No."

"The consulting detective asking for advice." John smiled to himself. At Sherlock's clear and visible displeasure, John continued. "Go with the four 'S's. There's something sexy, sweet, smelly, or sentimental. Take your pick."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

"Why don't you go talk to her?"

"I can't." Sherlock began to pluck the strings again. "Not now."

"What did you do?" John moaned.

* * *

Anna sat on her sofa, her feet curled up beneath her body and a pillow clutched close under her chin. Loose ends of her hair hung over her forehead and into her eyes. Any makeup she'd had on that day dripped away as tears continued to dribble down her cheeks.

She looked like a mess and it didn't matter.

Sherlock bringing up the subject of her Brandon, fiancé—ex-fiancé—was considerably touchy. Though, how was he to know? She'd never mentioned him before, as she hardly did to anyone these days.

An old shoebox sat in front of her on the coffee table, its contents carefully spread out on its surface. There was a postcard, marked from a year ago, from Brandon while she was in Boston. There were a few ticket stubs and flower petals. In her hand, there was a picture of the two of them. It was the night he proposed and they appeared to be the happiest they could be.

That was a lie.

"Anna?" a voice called from her open doorway.

"Oh! John!" Anna sniffed and wiped away the mucus, tear mixture away from her face with the sleeve of her jumper. "How did you get in?" She cleared her throat and attempted to look presentable.

"Um, one of your neighbors. On their way out." John stepped in her flat. "Anna, are you alright?"

"Yes."

"You don't have to lie."

Anna let out a heavy, breathy laugh. "No." A fresh stream of tears built up beneath her closed eyes. She tried to wipe them away. "I'm sorry."

"No." John walked further into the room and took a seat at her side on the couch and put his arm around her in a comforting embrace.

Anna leaned into it and wept.

The pair sat like that until Anna's sobs subsided and settled into a calm silence.

"What happened to him?" Anna looked up from her pillow, eyes wide and puffy. "Sorry. You don't have to talk about it."

"No." Anna sat up straighter and fixed her composure and took a quick breath before continuing. "I met Brandon at Uni before I transferred over to Boston. He was sweet and kind and funny and everything I thought I wanted." Anna reached for one of the pictures lying on the coffee table. "He proposed to me just before Christmas. It was very romantic. And then I left. Things between us were alright, at first, but then we hit a lot of rough patches." Anna cleared her throat again and fumbled the picture between her fingers.

"And then, well, he left me. He never really _told_ me he left. It's stupid really." Her face was growing warmer from embarrassment.

"And then it happened.

"He called me one morning and kept apologizing, though I didn't understand why. He told me he still loved me and that he made some mistakes but couldn't tell me. His voice was…scared. It was terrified. Well, it left me really unsettled so I caught a flight back home and I dropped by his flat."

Anna started to stumble in her thoughts, though John urged her on.

"I found him there, lying face down in a puddle of his own blood and a knife in his back."

"Oh, God." John breathed out and Anna began to cry again.

Through her sobs, Anna said, "And…and they never did say…wh-who did it. They-they're still out there." Her voice shook less now. "I don't know what he did, but he died for it."

"Anna, I'm so sorry." John rubbed the side of one arm and hugged her closer. Once more, the two of them sat in silence, both getting lost in their own thoughts. Anna's tears had then ceased, leaving only the salty trails down her rosy cheeks.

"Mary is a lucky woman." Anna sat up from John's side and offered a petite smile, which John reciprocated.

They sat in good company a while longer. It was, they had realized, the first time they'd been able to chat away from Sherlock. It was refreshing.

And the mood had lightened significantly. Anna had prepared some coffee and brought out a small tray of cookies. They laughed together, even.

"I don't mean to be nosey, but is there a special someone for you these days?" Anna smiled and that gave it away. "Where'd you meet him?"

"At the symphony. He's a tad younger than me but we'd met during a rehearsal. He'd asked if I wanted to play at his recital—he's a violist."

"Good for you." John raised up his mug towards her with a smile.

"Say, um, John. I was actually wondering if you'd like a double date sometime?

"Sounds great!"

"You're a good friend." She put her arms around his neck. "Thank you for talking tonight. It means a lot."

"Of course."

* * *

Sherlock was walking towards Anna's corner café. His one hand tucked away into his jacked while the other gripping the folds of a small brown bag. His upper lip was curling up higher with each minute.

It was only by John's encouragement that Sherlock was doing this.

"You expect her to forgive_ you_ because _I_ talked to her? You can't be serious." John had said when he returned from her flat.

It's not that Sherlock didn't care about his friendship—since when did he have other friends?—with Anna, it's only that Sherlock hated asking for things.

He detested asking for advice, for help, or even for forgiveness.

Sherlock came to the front café door and stepped in. The chime of a bell rung as the door swung behind him. His eyes swiftly swept over the area and didn't find Anna.

"Your usual?" The usual woman called from the back of the shop.

"No. Where's Anna?"

The woman's face upturned into a smile. "Be right with you, dear." She disappeared behind a set of doors. When she returned, Anna followed, her jacket buttoned up and a purse slung over her side. Upon seeing him, Anna's face drooped. "Caught her just before she left," The woman smiled.

Sherlock could hear Anna's frustrated sigh and caught the roll of her eyes. "Let's go." She walked towards the door before he'd the chance to speak.

They walked back towards Baker Street, both in silence. Sherlock didn't mind it mostly; he wasn't quite sure what to say or how to start. He obviously wasn't the best with words. That would be John's strong suit.

However, he could sense unease from Anna. Every block or so, Sherlock would catch her stealing a glance his direction, as if suspicious and uncomfortable.

In a short amount of time, they'd reach the landing to her flat. Sherlock stopped outside the door and Anna walked up one step. They both stared at each other.

"Sherlock." Anna shoved her hands in her coat pockets. "Was there something you wanted to say or not? I do have something—."

Sherlock abruptly shot out his hand that gripped the small brown bag.

Anna's face scrunched a little, obviously confused. "What is this?" She took the bag from him and began to open it.

"John mentioned such a token would be appropriate regarding the circumstances." Sherlock locked his hands behind his back.

"The circumstances?" Anna dug around the inside of the bag and pulled out its contents. "A muffin?"

"Something sweet. For you."

"It's a muffin."

"It's poppy seed." Sherlock defended.

"Um, thanks, Sherlock. I guess I don't understand—."

"I'm sorry, Anna."

* * *

**I know; there's no music in this one. There should be in the next one, though. I'm still figuring out where it's all going but thanks for reading!**

**If you want to keep tabs on what music I'm personally working on, check out my tumblr(listed on my profile page)! Tons of nerdy stuff there. :3**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Hello, everyone. I apologize for such a delayed post. Life has surely thrown me a curve ball, dealing with school, work, and the illness and the death of a family member. To be honest, it's a lot to deal with and it's been rough and I imagine the next few weeks will not be easy, as well. So, whatever you choose to believe, please keep my family in your thoughts or prayers. **

**I also apologize for the quality of this chapter. It's not my best but I wasn't sure how else to get it rolling again. I promise that the next few chapters will be better as they are already planned out. **

* * *

It was Friday evening. John was somewhere in the flat and Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, his gaze beamed through his microscope. He studied it until he heard footsteps from John's room down toward the living room.

"There you are." Sherlock didn't bother looking up but extended out a small slip of paper from his pocket. "I need you to do something."

"Can't." John walked passed him and opened the fridge door for a quick look, but then just as quickly regretted it. "I've got plans."

"Cancel them." His hand was still held out.

"Sherlock, no. I've a double with Anna." John moved towards the living room. "We're catching a cab together."

"A double?" Sherlock stole a glance away from the specimen under the microscope and lowered his arm.

"Yes. A date."

Sherlock returned his gaze to his experiment and grew silent a moment.

"Since when does Anna date?" He abruptly turned towards John again.

"You mean like a normal person?" John sat down in his chair. "Yeah. Strange." John checked his reflection in the chrome finish of a hanging pot, straightened his collar, and smiled to himself. "I'm off."

Sherlock still remained silent, almost sour.

"Well, goodbye."

There was no reply.

Sherlock could tell that had slightly annoyed John but that was nothing different. However, Sherlock felt irked, and for hardly any good reason. It sometimes evaded him that people, unlike himself, _did_interact with other people for enjoyment. He heard the front door close to the building and he couldn't resist going over to the window and push back the curtain a little.

There was already a cab waiting in front of Anna's building. John stepped in and waited for Anna.

Within just a few seconds, Anna stepped out. Her hair was swept back into soft curls, even from this distance Sherlock noticed a shade of color on her lips, and the hem of a black dress was peaking from her long jacket. Red heals accentuated the muscles of her calves. Clearly, she was trying to make an impression to someone.

Then, with a deeper frown, Sherlock noticed her date.

The man was tall—taller than her at least—with very light blonde hair that was neatly trimmed. Dark frames sat on the bridge of his nose and a brown leather jacket hugged his lean frame. From his movements, Sherlock could see agility and strength. The man opened the car door for Anna and they both ducked in.

Sherlock's upper lipped curled as he returned to his microscope.

* * *

Anna, her date—Robert—, John, and Mary all decided to eat at a quiet dinner club. It wasn't anything too high class but still made for a classy first impression. Really, the night had gone well. The food was great—ugh, the wine!—and the company was just as good. Mary and Anna seemed to hit things off well together and Robert seemed to be a nice guy.

Robert was polite; he pulled out Anna's chair for her before his own. He was extremely handsome—his jaw muscular, his masculine hands, and his white smile. His dark eyes sparkled under the soft light in the room as he looked at Anna.

The three of them had been conversing about music—a topic which John felt insufficient in—and listened instead. Soon, he became lost and their topic choice became too in depth for him to understand well.

Then, his mobile vibrated against his leg.

_Tell me what's happening.—SH_

**What? Why?—JW**

_Curiosity. I want to know who this man is.—SH_

**You're jealous. That's it.—JW**

_No.—SH_

John tried to ignore his phone again as desert had been brought out.

Then it vibrated once more.

_Well?—SH_

**_She seems to be enjoying herself.—JW_**

_What kind of signs does she have?—SH_

**_Signs?—JW_**

_Body language, John.—SH_

John looked up, trying to be discrete and studied Anna across the table from him.

**_Laughing, brushed hair behind ear, shoulders open and turned towards her date.—JW_**

Anna then noticed John observing her and she gave him a slight smile, and raised her eyebrow, only just a little as if to ask a silent question.

John himself grew embarrassed and tucked his mobile back into his pants pocket for the rest of the night.

* * *

John returned to 221B that night by himself, but a grin spread his cheeks wide. He set his just set his keys down on a table before Sherlock bombarded him.

"Well?" Sherlock asked expectantly.

"Well what?" John slipped past him.

"How much did he tip? What color socks was he wearing? What scent cologne?"

"Um…" John stopped in a doorway on his heels. "What?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's astonishing how unobservant ordinary people are. How do you figure out anything?"

"It sounds like you're more interested in her date than anything." John loosened the tie around his neck and watched as Sherlock crouched aside one of the windows and moved the curtain aside. "His names Robert, by the way. Nice guy."

"Yes, fine." Sherlock brushed his comment away and watched in silence.

Out his window, Sherlock could see Anna and The Man, standing on the first few steps to her building. His back was turned but Sherlock could see a soft smile on Anna's flush face. Her laugh lightly echoed in the darkness of the street.

Sherlock's upper lip curled again.

Many things bothered him. Couples flirting in public happened to be one of those things.

A small part of him felt happy, though, when they parted their ways, her only offering a peck on his cheek and he only giving a tight hug before leaving.

* * *

At this point, Anna was quite happy with herself. She'd had a fairly successful date—the first in almost two and a half years! She'd met Mary, who she decided makes quite the adorable couple with John. The guy she'd seen—Robert—is the violist with whom she recently decided to perform with, which made rehearsing together that much more enjoyable. She'd only had one problem, though.

Sherlock. It was Sherlock.

She hadn't even seen him, hardly even talked to him but she'd always thought about him, even when she was with Robert. It was like his voice was in the back of her mind, always throwing in some snide, Sherlock-like comment.

To a certain extent, it wouldn't have bothered her but, rather, it made her feel guilty! It always managed to distract her from Robert. Really, he was such a gentleman and quite the extraordinary performer. But something was just missing, it seemed to Anna.

Since Brandon passed, things have never exactly felt normal.

What made it worse for her was that Robert seemed to be more into the idea of their relationship than Anna actually was. Sure, it was nice to have a handsome man fussing over her and showering her with attention but it wasn't what she needed.

Still, Anna tried to get passed things and waited over time to see if her feelings would change.

* * *

It was a few weeks later after their first date and Anna and Robert were meeting at Baker Street to rehearse together a piece for Robert's recital. They were playing a piece she'd never heard before: _Piston Duo for Viola and Violoncello._ It was quite the complicated piece, with the two voices intertwining and working back and forth with each other. To the ordinary listener, she was sure it was quite dizzying.

Waiting for Robert's arrival, Anna's mobile vibrated.

_I'm in the mood for some Handel._

**_Oh good choice._**

Anna smiled and set the phone down. This was the first time in a few weeks that they'd talked to each other.

_Sonata in A Major? _

**_What? Oh. Sherlock I'd love to but I have a rehearsal. _**

Anna frowned now. She'd been meaning to play with him again. He was a great performer and communicated well with his body, which is a skill in itself while performing.

She listened as he started to play on his own.

Lalo's _Symphonie Espagnole._

It's a standard repertoire piece and demanded specific skill and technique. Tonight, it seemed Sherlock pounded away and growled at the feisty rolls and turns of the melody.

Then, her buzzer rang.

"Let me in?"

She pressed the button and she could hear the door at the landing close as he walked in. As it had been several weeks that they'd been 'seeing' each other, Robert let himself in. Anna was sitting back in her cello chair and she felt his arm snake around her waist and plan a soft kiss on her cheek.

"Hello, beautiful."

She smiled into his grasp. "Hey, yourself. You're late."

"Musicians are always late."

Now, Robert managed to bring Anna to her feet and turn her around to his side. He gripped her waist gently.

Anna's ears perked up as Sherlock's piece was coming to a close. Its final chord progressions dragged her heart to a sudden halt.

Robert was now trailing soft kisses on the visible parts of her neck. His hands gripped her waist a little more firmly and she could feel his heart beat pitter patter faster.

Across the street, the melody came to a final climax and then it became silent around her. Aside from her own breathing, and Robert's heavy breath on her neck, all Anna could think about was one thing.

_Sherlock. _

* * *

**Love it, hate it, let me know. Ta. **


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Thanks for the kind words everyone and thanks for following my story and leaving reviews. If you stick around, I promise this next chapter is going to be quite entertaining to read. ;) Some clues? Alcohol, revenge, bed. **

**Anyways, I don't own anything but Anna and Robert.**

* * *

Anna sat on a bench, inside the Uni's fine arts building. Robert invited her to one of his performances. He was playing a Mendelssohn piece with a string quartet. Although Mendelssohn gets a bad rap as a composer, his music was always enjoyable to listen to so how could Anna pass up a good performance?

Only, if there's one thing that especially is bothersome to Anna, it's going to an event alone—a concert, a play, any social event, really.

She glanced down at her wristwatch. Its face told her twenty minutes still remained before the concert began. A huff of air blew from her lungs.

Twenty minutes. What to do with twenty minutes.

Anna pulled out her mobile. No missed calls, no texts. No new e-mails. Nothing exciting in Facebook land. She put her mobile back down and looked at the watch again.

Eighteen minutes.

"Ugh!." Anna slouched over and cupped her face in her palms.

Then, an idea came to her.

_Come now. Might be dangerous._

Anna sent an attachment of the building's address.

**_On my way._**

Anna waited by the front doors of the building building, her hands shoved in her coat pockets and waited eagerly. She rocked back and forth on her feet and kept checking the time on her watch.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Sherlock's voice came from behind her.

She spun around and smiled, noting that he was tightly bundled in a long, dark jacket. "Oh, nothing."

Sherlock studied her a minute.

"What do you want?"

"I thought you might like a concert."

"You got me out for a concert." Sherlock's hands still stayed buried deep in his coat pockets and a neutral frown stayed on his lips.

Anna shrugged a little, looking through the concert notes. "It could be dangerous."

Sherlock grabbed it from her and glanced through the concert material. He rolled his eyes at her. "They're playing Mendelssohn."

Anna laughed. "You never know!"

He sighed again, this time with a tiny smirk. "He's Jewish!"

In the dark concert hall, Anna sat triumphantly as she'd managed to bring Sherlock in with her. His long legs sat bowed awkwardly in the narrow row of seats. The downbeat and the closing note of the concert came and passed quickly and the small audience filed out of the hall.

Many of the performers came out and met their friends and family.

Sherlock and Anna stood near a pillar. Sherlock was still quite sour, although it was clear he'd enjoyed himself, as he would hum a motif, catch himself, and would stop.

"Robert! Great job!" Anna rushed over and gave him a hug.

When they parted, she introduced them.

Robert was polite, thanked him for coming, and smiled.

Sherlock, being Sherlock, only nodded and gave a half effort grin. He remained silent as Anna and Robert chatted a while longer.

Robert then excused himself to go help tear down the stage and that he'd catch up later.

* * *

The two silently departed and got in a taxi together. Silence remained around them as buildings slid past them through the windows. Soon, the silence became too much.

"Sherlock, is something wrong? You haven't said a word for the past three hours." Sherlock kept his gaze out the side window and when he didn't give a response, Anna spoke again.

"Look, if you're mad about coming to the concert it's—."

"He's needy." Sherlock calmly spoke up.

"What?" She turned her head towards Sherlock this time, as did he.

"He depends on others too much." Sherlock blatantly stated.

"Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

"And he's still attached to his past lover."

Anna shook her head a little, slightly confused and dumbfounded. "Where are you getting these ideas from?"

First, he sighed a little, and then took in a long breath.

"When he pulled out his phone, there were three missed calls and two messages. He checked and all were from his mother. His shirt was cleanly pressed and no man that age posses the skill or desire to tend to his clothing so neatly. So, one would think about the dry cleaners. No. He's a student and that's not in the budget. Just have mum do it at home, along with do his laundry and clean his room.

And the way he put his arm around you. It was possessive yet his gaze wandered around the room, as if to see whom else could see where his arm was. To show off, like a boastful child on Christmas."

The cab came to a stop.

"You're wrong." Anna, in disbelief, stated before she got out, leaving Sherlock to cover the cab fare. She ran across the street to her building, not seeing Sherlock's small smirk on his lips.

"I'm never wrong," he had mumbled walking towards his front door.

* * *

The statements Sherlock made about Robert really resonated and bothered Anna. She didn't want to believe him. Robert was the first honest, kind, _attractive, _least scumbag of a guy she'd met in almost half a year.

Perhaps she'd put Robert up on a pedestal. Maybe he wasn't that great of a guy but he certainly couldn't be any of the things Sherlock mentioned. Surely, she would've noticed something like that!

It was an honest relief when Robert phoned her and invited her to dinner. At _his _place.

When she had gotten there, she was pleasantly happy. Robert's flat was modest and simple. He lived by himself but had little time for actually living in his home, as he was always at a performance. Really, it was tidy and tastefully decorated. His mother must've helped.

For dinner, he made delicious lasagna. So he could cook. That's a plus, right?

Later, they sat on his sofa, sipping coffee and nibbling on chocolate.

Anna had to admit that everything seemed too good to be true and it made her suspicious. The entire night, they clouded her thoughts. Anna observed Robert diligently, every run of his hand through his hair, how he held his wine glass, his posture as he sat, blue button up shirt, and formal fitting sports jacket. As many details as possible.

Things still didn't fit together though. Nothing seemed to match what Sherlock had said.

They eventually came to the subject of music.

Robert brought up a piece that she'd never heard before. He happily excused himself to another room in search of the sheet music.

As she waited, Anna noticed his phone sitting on the coffee table in front of her. Her gaze attempted to avoid it, looking from pictures and plants around the room yet always came back to the plastic chunk on the table.

Anna inwardly chastised herself as she reached for it.

With this action, she'd instantly become one of _those _girls. The nosey, stalker girls.

She flipped the cover open and briefly scanned through the most recent texts. Not many girls—his mother, a sister, and a few ladies from work (nothing serious just gossip about the boss).

_Okay, what else?_

Photos.

Anna scanned through the first few pictures. Picture of the family pet, concert picture, siblings, and then a **penis**!

His penis? _Someone's_ penis was on his mobile. It glared at her from the screen.

Anna was in a state of shock and was immobile for a brief second. Then she could hear his footsteps grow closer to the living room. She fumbled with it before dropping it on the table.

"What was that?" He came and sat next to her.

"Just stubbed my toe." Anna nervously chuckled and could feel an obvious flush grow on her cheeks.

Then, her observations began to come together.

His cleanly pressed shirts, neat living quarters, clean and trimmed appearance with quite the nice selection of various ties and matching socks.

Is Robert gay?

* * *

**A/N: I hope no one got offended by the Mendelssohn thing. Thing is, the Jewish get blamed-unfortunately-for a lot of things and have been looked down upon and Mendelssohn has gotten a bad rap simply because he's Jewish, even though he's a fabulous composer. **

**For those who care, I was referring to Mendelssohn's String Quartet No. 1 in E flat. **

**Also, the last chapter, I mentioned Lalo's Symphonie Espagnole. For those who care, it's a piece I'm working on right now and it's super fun and hard and awesome. **


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Hello, lovlies! I had fun writing this bit so I hope you enjoy it! don't be afraid to review it or leave me any comments or visit my tumblr (link on my profile) and check me out!**

**Also, to my fellow Americans, I hope you all exercised your right to vote, whomever you decided to vote for. DFTBA.  
**

**As always, I don't own anything. I just play with them. :3**

* * *

It was a Friday evening and John and Mary decided to have a night in. They'd gotten cozy on the couch and cuddled warm in each other's embrace. With the burning embers of a fire remaining in the hearth, they'd started to watch a movie on the telly. The plot line wasn't particularly exciting and they'd soon grown….distracted. And passionate.

Mary lay atop John, straddling his waist and the blanket was drawn still around her shoulders. She was kissing his neck when the flat door opened up and Sherlock walked in.

The pair of them stopped their actions and watched as he swiftly moved to the chair not far from them. He didn't say anything, nor did they. John and Mary exchanged glances, not quite sure what to make of the situation.

"Sherlock, can't you see—." John started.

"Leave."

"You can't be serious."

Sherlock's gaze quickly shifted to them, wide eyed yet expressionless. "Am I interrupting something important?"

"And what do you need to do here and _now_ that's so important?"

Now, Sherlock looked straight ahead. "I need to go to my mind palace."

It had been a long week for John—they were in the middle of a case and this night was supposed to be his night of relief. Either way, with Sherlock home, that was surely out of the question now.

"You know what, fine."

"John, you're kidding." Mary whispered to him, although Sherlock could clearly hear it.

John stood up and gathered his coat. "Let's just go."

They both composed themselves—they were rather disheveled—and both gave an angry glare at Sherlock before leaving, not bothering to stop the door from slamming behind them.

With the room silent, except for the occasional crack of an ember, Sherlock slipped into the recesses of his mind.

* * *

That day, a girl from the shop invited Anna for a night out with her friends. This girl—Amanda—was bubbly and seemed nice, so Anna didn't see why not. This was the first time in a while that she was going out with a group of girls and it felt refreshing. It felt like her early college days.

She looked like her early college days, in fact.

She found a simple, short black dress that hugged her curves nicely and felt nice against her skin. Red heals covered her toes and her hair was pulled up in a loose mop of a bun. Heavy makeup hid the dark, sleep induced circles under her eyes. The lipstick that stained her lips red made her feel especially sexy.

It was a relief when she'd met up with Amanda and her girls; they all looked just like her. They all looked like they needed a good drink. Or several drinks. And they didn't waste any time in moderating the booze.

In the dark club, Technicolor lights around them flashed and waved to the loud music and the bass reverberated in their chests.

They'd been dancing with each other and with strangers in the club. The heat of their bodies filled the space and the rocking and gyrating of hips and limbs became hypnotic. Sweat and musk perfumed the room mixed with strong cologne and cheep perfume.

Slightly out of breath and feeling the need for another drink, the group of girls stepped to the side and over to the bar.

"Courtesy of the man over there." The bartender set down a bright red drink in front of one of the girls and pointed to a man from the opposite side of the bar.

"Oh he's hot." Another said, swaying her hips from side to side.

"Too bad for him, ladies. I'm already taken." She started to slur.

"Lucky bitch." One of them laughed.

"He's all yours. I'll keep the booze, though." One of the other girls went over and approached him and brought him out to dance.

"What's your deal, Anna?" Amanda blurted out over the music.

"My deal?" Anna's head spun in circles and she felt like laughing.

"She means chicks or dicks?"

"Oh, dicks."

Anna's inner self was angry. What if Robert was gay?

Fuck Sherlock for ever bringing anything up. Everything was doing just fine before he ruined it.

"Do you have one?" One girl asked.

"Err. Sort of." She didn't exactly feel like going into specifics of her last date and her unfortunate discovery. And the statements Sherlock made of said date.

"How's the sex?"

"Not happening." Her face flush.

"Why the fuck not! You're hot, I bet he's hot."

"Damn girl, you need to get on that."

"Get some!" One of the girls slammed down a shot and hissed as the liquid went down her throat.

"Why are you even here with us when you could be twisted in the throws of passion with a sex beast?"

Anna snorted into her drink.

Her relationship with Robert seemed almost normal before Sherlock ruined it. There was hope for her again and it pissed her off. She needed things settled out.

"Look's like someone needs to get laid." Amanda laughed out.

"Damn right."

The girls, induced with alcohol, hormones, and the lively atmosphere, started scoping out guys in the room.

"Uh, I would love to have a go with him." Anna could hear one girl say. She ignored the other comments given, as she was rather distracted.

Not only was her head constantly spinning and it was hard for her eyes to focus, but also her thoughts were constantly fixed on Robert and Sherlock. Anna started out angry and pissed.

She did NOT need Sherlock telling her things about guys. If there's something wrong with them, it's her place to figure it out. Not some overly confident detective.

Then she switched to upset and confused.

Why would he feel the need to tell her these things? Why did he need to push Robert away from her—or at least try to? And when Robert kissed her neck or put his hand at the small of her back, why didn't she feel any of that special butterfly feeling?

What was wrong with _her?_ Maybe Robert wasn't actually gay….

She wanted to badly for things to work out with Robert. Maybe too much.

"Anna! There's a hottie checking you out." Amanda nudged her shoulder.

"I don't care." A deep frown settled onto her face and she stood up from her bar stool.

"Where are you going?" One girl, who was getting rather sloppy, grabbed onto Anna's arm.

"I need to see someone."

"Get some!" Another girl slammed down another drink.

"Get some!" Anna yelled back, making her way for the exit.

* * *

John and Mary went back to her flat and settled onto her couch. Unlike before, the situation was rather tense and not the ideal Friday night in.

"Why do you let him walk all over you like that?" Mary said from her side of the couch. Her arms were sternly crossed over her chest and she wrapped a blanket firmly around herself, not leaving any room for John.

"I don't—."

"John, yes. You do. It's not fair to you. It's your place, too. You have a say in what's going on."

John sighed because he knew she was right. "It's just easier not to argue with him sometimes."

"He acts like a small child, John! You can't appease him forever. He's going to take advantage of you forever unless you do something about it! You can't just keep rolling over and accepting him."

John leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees. A stern frown formed on his lips. "You're right."

John stood up and walked towards the door, lacing up his shoes and throwing on his jacket.

"Were are you going?"

"To have talk."

"That's my man." Mary swatted his rear end and smiled as he left.

* * *

When John got back to 221B, Sherlock remained in the exact same position as he was left. The embers of the fire and died down and no lights were turned on. Sherlock remained in his chair, his hands at his side, and he looked straight forward into space, his expression blank and free.

John turned on a light and walked in front of Sherlock a few times. His concentration didn't falter and he continued to look forward, not even acknowledging his presence.

John ran his hand through his hair. Talking with Mary fired him up but, now that he was there, he didn't exactly know how to confront Sherlock about it.

_You act like a spoiled child and it needs to stop and…go have a time out? You need to learn how to share? _

Just then, John's pocket began to vibrate. He pulled it out and the screen read 'Anna'. He flipped it open.

"John, let me in."

"Anna, this isn't the best time."

"Uuugh. Pullease. Let me in." Her words mumbled together and he could hear a knocking in the background.

"What was that?"

"Oh, nothing." She huskily laughed.

"Wait. You're pissed."

"No, I'm not. Just pretty please let me in, John. I need to talk with Sherlock."

John was going to ask why but then realized he didn't really care. He looked over at Sherlock again. In any other situation, John would know not to allow her in. But this time, whatever she as to say or do in her drunken state, Sherlock deserved it.

"Yeah, okay. I'll be right down."

Once John opened the door, Anna walked in and John slipped past her out.

"Where are you going?" She turned around to him. John noticed the prominent smell of booze and the short dress. Clubbing.

"Just on my way out, actually." He smiled. "Doors open, though. He's up there. If he doesn't talk to you right away, it's normal. Just…find a way to get his attention" From there, John turned a left back towards Mary's flat with a grin.

Poor chump, Sherlock. He's sure going to have _quite_ the problem on his hands once he gets back from his_ mind palace. _

John outwardly laughed.

He had it coming. Git.

* * *

**Let me know what you all think and stay tuned for the next chapter to see what Anna does. If you do, I promise it'll be spicy. ;)**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: As this story is rated, this chapter contains some adult material. While many of you, I'm sure, have waited for it, those uncomfortable with it should look elsewhere. I must say, it was difficult to write and I'm not sure what to think of it. Let me know and enjoy, my lovlies!**

* * *

Anna stumbled up the stairs and into 221B and, just as John said, Sherlock was sitting there….Just sitting. He didn't acknowledge her presence, not even a single glance.

Dumfounded and head still spinning, Anna sat in the chair across from Sherlock.

_What had she expected when she got there? What was she actually going to say to him? _

Anna had spoken his name, walked passed him back and forth, and even waved her hands in front of his face. However, Sherlock remained there motionless, blinking ever so slowly and staring into empty space in front of him.

She stood up and watched the shadows play on his face, his prominent cheekbones highlighted and his long nose elongated even more. In her jumbled, drunken stupor, Anna could only feel the strong desire to touch his face.

So she did. And it felt good.

Her greedy hands cupped his jaw line. When Sherlock didn't react to her touch, Anna felt an even stronger desire to be bolder.

_Such harsh words from such a handsome face, _Anna's inner-self observed. Finally, she wasn't afraid to act on any impulse, no matter how ridiculous they were.

She gripped a brown curl and rolled in between her fingers and smiled. Next, Anna placed her hand on one of his shoulders. Still, Sherlock showed no reaction to her touch. So, Anna placed her other hand on the opposite shoulder and pressed a little of her weight into his body.

Still, he showed no conscious awareness of Anna's presence.

With a devilish smile, Anna decided to test her luck.

* * *

Sherlock was deep in the corridors of his mind palace, searching for answers and organizing data, making connections and throwing out useless information. He wasn't sure how much time had passed since he entered but it didn't matter. His thoughts, as of late, were becoming cluttered.

He was sorting through bits of info he'd gathered through the past few weeks when there was a small tingle from his right ear. Sherlock shook his head a little to get it away and it subsided.

So, he went back to his process.

Once more, a tingling came to his ear, just at the earlobe. Sherlock shook his head, much like a dog would. This time, the tingling didn't disappear. Only, the tingling became sharper and more prominent. It begged for his attention.

It switched to his other ear. It itched and made him groan in frustration as it pulled him farther and farther away from his mind palace.

Just barely in the threshold of consciousness, Sherlock could now feel soft feathery tickles against his cheeks and warm air blowing at the nape of his neck. And then there was the pungent smell of alcohol that lingered.

Sherlock's eyes abruptly opened, though the rest of his body didn't move, but rather observed the current situation.

A girl—woman—was straddling his waist.

Apparently, Sherlock was oblivious of his surroundings and _his own _actions while in his mind palace as he noticed that his hands were gripping her backside rather firmly. It also seemed that the normal control of his body had been lost as an erection nagged eagerly in his trousers.

It made Sherlock feel like a hormonal teenager.

Occasionally, the woman would wave her hips forward and back against the growing hardness in his groin and she would sigh.

He let out a low growl—barely audible and in the back of his throat—in mixed signals of brief pleasure and frustration.

"You're such an infuriating man," the woman breathed into his ear. Her voice was deeper and a little huskier than normal, but Sherlock recognized it as Anna's voice. He was sure by the smell of her perfume. Although it was tampered with alcohol and musky sweat, Sherlock was sure of it.

"Such an infuriating, horrible arse." Her nose nuzzled on his neck.

Sherlock remained silent but moved his hands to his side and away from Anna's rear.

"You ruined everything but I came running to you anyways. Now what does that say, hmm?" She nipped at his earlobe again, finding the same spot that withdrew him from his Mind Palace. Sherlock let out clear, audible hiss.

"There's the spot, hmm?" Anna leaned back, her hands still roaming on his shoulders and chest, and looked into his eyes.

It was then Sherlock could see how inebriated she really was. Her eyes were becoming red, speckles of her dark mascara began to flake under her eyes, leaving a messy impression of sleepiness. A dark spot on her dress showed where a drink was splashed. Her red lipstick was smeared on the edges of her lips.

He then realized that her small dress had ridden up her thighs as she straddled her legs over his waist, barely leaving anything to the imagination. As ever the observant detective, Sherlock couldn't help but notice the heat emanating from her core.

Anna gave him a sideways smile and leaned in. Sherlock expected to get a sloppy kiss on the lips but she only left soft, moist kisses between his collarbone and jaw line.

"Evening." He whispered.

"Glad I have your attention." Anna continued her ministrations on his neck. Sherlock did nothing.

"Now what?"

Anna leaned back again on her heels and thought a moment. "I hadn't thought that far!" Anna hiccupped a little and started to lean back in. "This is fun, though."

"Get up."

"I don't want to." Anna laughed in his ear and ground her hips deeper again onto Sherlock's still present hardness.

"I've a surprise." Sherlock grinned. "I promise you'll like it."

"Oh, I love surprises!" Anna stumbled off his lap, managing not to trip over her own two feet. Sherlock retreated into the kitchen.

He poked his head through cupboards, looking for a small object he rarely used. He pushed around boxes and cans.

Small giggles and shuffling came from the living room but he chose to ignore it.

Satisfied when he found the desired object, Sherlock pocketed it and returned to the living room only to see Anna disappeared.

"Marco." Sherlock heard from behind him. He turned around to see Anna standing in the doorway of his bedroom.

She had discarded her dress, only leaving a black lacy brazier and matching panties. Her hand had crawled up the doorframe and exposed the length of her body to his gaze. Her pale skin contrasted against the darkness of the room behind her.

She walked forward and placed her hands on his chest. "You're supposed to say polo." Anna sloppily laughed, reaching up to place kisses on his ear once more.

Sherlock's hands had made their way to her hips, just resting at the very top of her body's natural curve. Subtly, he began to guide them into the doorway of his bedroom.

Anna shuddered at the contact of his warm skin against her own cool skin. She pulled his head down and coupled her lips to his own, harshly. It was full of her desire and frenzy—to her at least.

To Sherlock, however, it was rather hasty and sloppy.

As she nibbled at his bottom lip, Anna decided to be daring and cupped his bulging erection.

Sherlock pulled away from her and looked down at her face. Pupils dilated, lips swollen, and fingers greedily pulling at the lapels of his jacket. Her drunken state left her dazed and horny.

Then, she gave Sherlock her most seductive grin—at least, given her current state, that's what he assumed it was. It seemed rather lopsided.

"Goodnight."

Her grin disappeared and an eyebrow rose. Before she could say anything else, Sherlock pushed her into the room and shoved a key through the door lock and twisted it.

"What the hell!" Anna banged on the door several times. "Sherlock!"

"That was easy." Sherlock mumbled to himself. He brushed off his sleeves and straightened out his jacket.

* * *

Early the next morning, John returned home. As he pushed open the door, he noticed Sherlock stir. He tossed around on the cushions and groaned. When he heard John's footsteps, Sherlock sat up straight.

"You've the nerve!"

John smiled at him.

"Rough night?"

* * *

**A/N2: Also, for my fellow Americans, happy early Thanksgiving! I hope you all spend the day with friends and family, and find something to be thankful about in your lives. **


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Aaaaahhh! I'm so terribly sorry for not ever updating. This last semester was really hard and I know that this upcoming semester will be even more demanding of my time. So thank you to those that have contacted me on tumblr or have added me or have left me reviews on here. It was actually very nice to see that many people still read this while I was away on hiatus. **

**Anyways, I'm excited where I get to go with this story now. I wasn't sure before but an idea dawned. :) I apologize in advance if the writing isn't quality or if the plot line is a little fuzzy. I'm a music major, not a writer. This is just for shits and giggles. **

**The song I mention in this that Anna plays: Dvorak**** Cello Concerto in B Minor, B. 191: II Adagio ma non troppo****. Seriously listen. It has made me cry so many times over. It's damn just gorgeous.**

* * *

Sometime, as the bright sun nagged her from her deep slumber, Anna awoke with a harsh clearing of her throat. Her mouth was dry and irritated, as if it stayed open all night. A trail of drool partially dry down one cheek and onto the grey pillow her head rested on.

Anna cracked an eye open and regretted it immediately. The harsh brightness assaulted her eyes.

"What did I _do _last night?" Anna found herself in a stranger's room. It was orderly and clean and clearly not her own.

The cool air nipped at her skin, which was strange; she always wore layers to bed. Anna peaked under the thin blankets and blushed when she found only a slinky bra and thong.

"_Who_ did I do?"

Anna rubbed her temples. She noticed a sharp throb in the front of her skull and groaned.

She desperately needed to know what happened last night.

The last thing she remembered: being at the club with the girls.

_Get some!_

She got something, all right.

Anna slowly swung out of the bed and looked through the closet for something to cover whatever shred of her modesty remained.

Inside hung fine suits, collared shirts—all darkly colored—and one blue dressing robe, which she happily snatched. Anna wrapped it tightly around her body. At the bottom of the closet lay several leather shoes.

Nice taste in clothing. The room was sparse—no pictures, nothing very personal.

A breeze fluttered in the window, causing Anna to shudder. She walked up to the window to shut it but something caught her eye: her own apartment, across the street. And then her whereabouts dawned on her.

_Ohshitohshitohshit!_

Anna slammed her palms into her temples, immediately regretting it as it felt as though her brain rattled back and forth. She groaned and sat back down on the bed.

_Why am I in his bed? Did we have sex? Where is he?_

Anna tiptoed over to the door and twisted the handle, just creaking the door open. The living room was silent and there didn't seem to be anyone else in the kitchen.

Anna couldn't remember anything for the life of her and it scared her. It had been _years_ that she'd done anything so reckless and careless. Hell, she'd never had a one-night stand before.

_Of all people, it just had to be Sherlock._

Then, it surprised her. She couldn't believe it! Sherlock always was so reserved and prude. Maybe she could be as bold as to even say _asexual? _

Anna's eyes scanned over the living room and spotted Sherlock tightly curled up on the couch. His legs were drawn into his chest and his arms were folded around each other. His dark curls were a mess and a frown had settled on his face. Then she noticed the red lipstick smears all over his face—his neck, and his ears.

Anna rubbed her mouth with her forearm and saw a faint smear of red and gasped.

_OH FUCK. _

Anna spotted her shoes and her piled dress on the floor. She quickly grabbed them and made a mad dash for the door. In a shame, Anna retreated back into her own apartment across the street.

* * *

After this incident, Anna refrained from directly contacting Sherlock. He hadn't come into the café and she hadn't received any new texts from him. Being the woman she was, Anna thought she scared him away.

_Was the sex THAT bad? God, what did I do? _

These thoughts plagued her as she wiped down tabled between slow periods at the café.

_Should I call him? What about John? He could say something for me. No, that's stupid. _

Through these thoughts, Anna tried her best to act normally but there was always the nagging voice of her mother in the back of her head, shaming her for her actions. She did her best, though.

The business at the café started to pick up as the Christmas season began to inch closer and people aimed to finish their shopping earlier and earlier. Then there was Robert's performance she'd promised to play in. They hadn't played together in almost a month and Anna, being quite distracted lately, had hardly touched her cello.

That night, the first night in a few weeks that Anna returned home not entirely exhausted, Anna sat on her couch with Felix nestled at her side, a cup of warm tea, and thick socks on her feet. She sipped at the tea and looked over to the corner of the room where her cello sat propped up.

It had been a long while since she last played.

Anna got up, arranged a cozy place to play, opened a small crack in the window, and placed the instrument between her legs. After tuning up the strings, rosining up the bow, and blowing in her hands for warmth, Anna placed her bow. Without thinking, a piece came to her. She hadn't played it for a while but it was one of her favorites and always made her heart soar.

Ah, Dvorak.

With each breath, she imagined the orchestra playing behind her.

As she reached the cadenza, a little idea fluttered through her thoughts.

_I hope Sherlock is listening. _

* * *

Sherlock was oblivious to the swelling music across the street.

There hadn't been a good case in what felt like months and he was growing restless once more, so he retreated to his Mind Palace more often than not lately. Things weren't really cluttered in there. He just liked being away most times.

He had just finished clearing out a room.

_Uh, global warming. Useless information._

Heading into another area of his palace, Sherlock found more untitled boxes. They gathered up in short piles from the past week.

Random television programs, advertisements, jingles. It was all like junk mail that he automatically threw out.

There were scraps of information that he found useful, which he kept in another box. There were street names and maps and bus routes, which he threw in the same box with other scraps.

And then there were people.

There were strangers and faces he'd never seen before. He could hear different dialects and languages and smell different cultural cuisines.

Then there was a box for John, in which he kept some information. Believe it or not, Sherlock did like to pay attention to his friend. John was important to him.

And to his own shock, a box had started for Anna. This wasn't his own doing and it surprised him. He'd never recalled seeing it before.

Seated on the floor, Sherlock pulled the box closer to himself and pulled open the flaps.

There were scraps of visual recollections from when they first met—her wrist brace, her apron, and messy work shirt—as well as audible collections—bits of Bach, Bartok, and pieces of the few times they played together.

The biggest piece of the collection had to have been the most recent, from their last time together.

It was the visual memory of Anna scantly clad in his doorway, in her drunken stupor beckoning him to join in carnal pleasures.

Sherlock curled his lip.

That particular incident was borderline embarrassing. Usually, he kept his bodily functions in check but his hormones decided otherwise. And he felt belittled.

However, it was also somewhat liberating.

Sherlock never saw the importance of relationships, romantic or otherwise. His outlook had changed once John entered his life. And then this incident happened.

He looked back at the memory of Anna. Her long legs leaded up to a 'v' that was barely covered by a lacy set of panties.

Not that seeing a scantly clad woman was particularly life changing. But Sherlock had always limited himself to certain liberties. Though they hardly ever interested him, the idea seemed exciting now.

Not only was Sherlock growing desperate for a case, but also he was desperate for change, something different.

A new, fresh energy surged through his body and his nostrils flared out

Sherlock pulled himself away from his Mind Palace and opened his eyes, then realizing the exact 'energy' he'd felt was indeed the beginnings of an erection. He rolled his eyes.

"Did I come at a poor time, brother?"

He snatched a pillow at his side and settled it on his lap, embarrassed to be caught in such a state.

Mycroft, however, sat comfortably in the chair in which John usually occupied. His legs were crossed at the knee, his cane resting at his side, and one hand lightly supported the weight of his jaw.

"What is it, Mycroft?"

"Just checking in on my favorite person." He gave Sherlock a snide smile.

The two of them sat in a momentary silence until the cello across the street began to play. This time, a viola accompanied it.

Mycroft glanced out the window, as did Sherlock.

"I bet they're quite the couple." Mycroft looked back his way.

Sherlock knew what this was about.

It had been some time ago, but he'd been warned to distance himself from Anna. Obviously, he'd ignored that warning.

"Is that all you've come to say?" Sherlock uncomfortably shifted on the couch.

Mycroft stood up and pushed aside the curtain a little. He closed his eyes, listening to the music from Anna's flat. When his eyes opened again, they were clear and dark and very stern.

"I told you before. Her companionship is not wise."

Sherlock remained silent, only clutched the pillow and watched as Mycroft moved towards the door.

"Listen to me this time. Just do what I say and stay out of my way."

Sherlock frowned as Mycroft left.

* * *

**I love you all! Let me know what you think-good or bad, I'll take it all. :) **


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Thanks everyone for reading and leaving me reviews! I love them all and they make me smile oh so much. :D**

**For those that are wondering, the piece I refer to in this piece, I used this YouTube link: watch?v=RM9DPfp7-Ck**

**It's a good one. Anyways, enjoy!**

* * *

The next day—a Saturday—Anna stayed in her bed for a long time through the morning. It was glorious. Felix remained at her side, absorbing her body warmth, until she peeled the covers off her body just before the noon hour rolled around.

She took a long shower and threw her hair up in a messy blob of a bun on the crown of her head.

Then, whilst brewing a small pot of coffee and eating a banana, Anna decided it would be a musical day; a day devoted to listening, creating, and practicing music. Her skills were growing rusty and everyone needs one of those personal days where they completely devote their time to something _they_ want.

She walked into the living room and Anna lovingly grasped the neck of her cello. Her seating arrangement from the night before was still set up. Taking a seat, Anna began her repetitious scales and exercises from her university years. Scales in every key, their minor equivalent, and every other variation in between.

Time became irrelevant and, eventually, Anna moved onto repertoire. She played through music for Robert's recital, and then opened another solo piece.

Anna settled it on her stand and straightened it out, remembering everything her professor had taught her and every drill she'd practice to be able to perform this piece. Anna remembered every emotion and every musical thought she'd developed about it.

When she felt prepared, Anna closed her eyes and placed her fingers at their correct positions. Her limbs breathed with her as Anna took a deep breath in.

Upon placing the bow down for the opening chord, her buzzer rang.

A gurgled crunch came from her cello and Anna cringed.

"Let me in." Sherlock came from the intercom.

Anna silently breathed to herself. She'd been avoiding talking to him since _that night._ She could only imagine how awkward their time together must have been and, although there were questions, it was really something Anna didn't want to talk about.

It's not like Anna didn't find herself sexually attracted to him—she figured that had been there for a long while. But just because there's attraction there doesn't mean they should actually _do _anything about it.

"I know you're there. I could hear you across the street."

Anna rubbed her face and pulled her instrument away from her body, immediately feeling colder. She placed it in its stand in the corner and pressed the button below the intercom speaker, allowing Sherlock entrance.

"Just come on in." She'd said in the speaker. Anna then walked towards the kitchen and grunted, pouring a fresh cup of coffee. Seeing Sherlock again was really a situation she'd been hoping to avoid as much as possible.

* * *

Opposite of Anna, Sherlock had awoken early that Saturday morning. The lack of a right proper case had left him on edge all week and then the previous day's visit from Mycroft certainly sparked his nerves.

_What did Mycroft mean 'Stay out of my way'? Why is Anna concerned in this? _

She has no felony record and, unless she was a secret mastermind (which she wasn't), her habits didn't portray any sort of hidden motive. There was nothing special to her.

Average woman with a musical talent working in a below average café.

And everything was driving him insane. He was beyond bored, even with the situation Mycroft brought up. Sherlock was plagued by images of Anna in his doorway, which, for some odd reason, he could not bring himself to delete from his memory. It made his skull rattle and it felt as though he was in an endless spiral; in his boredom, his mind would bring him back to these images. It was infuriating beyond reason.

Even four nicotine patches couldn't fix this problem.

Sherlock had abruptly stood up from the chair in which he sat and grabbed his jacket. It was about damned time something changed.

* * *

This is when Sherlock opened Anna's front door and strolled into her living room. Anna just finished pouring a cup of coffee and had settled onto her couch. Her legs were crossed beneath her and her hands cradled the warm mug.

Sherlock, not even bothering to shed his jacket, sat across from her on her love seat. His legs were wide and his fingers were laced together. All together, he didn't look all too comfortable. He looked tense even.

There was an uneasy silence for the both of them, but for entirely separate reasons. Anna sipped at her coffee and Sherlock's leg began to twitch.

"Is there a reason why you stopped by?" She quietly spoke.

"No." Sherlock bit back at her.

Yes, he was on edge. But Anna couldn't exactly tell as to why.

"Oh. Alright." Anna sipped at her coffee once more.

They sat there a while longer. Sherlock brewed with his thoughts in his own world and Anna drank her coffee, her own thoughts eventually drifting back to her music.

"Keep playing." Anna looked up from the brim of her mug to see that Sherlock had barely moved. His hands were locked in a bridge and rested under his nose. "The piece from earlier." He waved one hand to move her on and then locked them back together.

"Oh." She uncurled herself and brought her cello back. Anna seated herself once more on her chair and brought her instrument into playing position. She cleared her throat a little bit and looked over at Sherlock. His eyes were closed but his body hadn't relaxed at all.

"This is an Elgar piece." Sherlock still didn't move.

Anna had played it so many times that she could easily watch while she played.

Sherlock kept his eyes closed while he listened to the music coming from her cello. The strings sighed with each stroke of the bow and Sherlock's own rhythmical breathed acclimated to this slow tempo.

However, he was ice frigid.

His fingers dug into the armrest and Anna could visually see the muscles in his neck tensing up and bulging under his skin.

Then he opened his eyes and calmly stood up. Anna was shocked and a small hiccup stuttered in her bow arm.

"Keep playing. Don't mind me."

Anna found herself feeling more nervous and her right pinky began to shake lightly. Sherlock began to circle around her chair and, with every step, Anna could hear a soft tap from the soul of his shoe against the wooden floors.

To concentrate now, Anna closed her eyes and created an image of the music in her mind. She focused on the music on the page rather than the intimidating man around her.

When there was a soft tickle at her neck, Anna took a sharp breath in.

"Keep playing."

She wasn't sure what Sherlock was doing but Anna could now feel her adrenaline rushing, along with a loud pounding in her ears. It rang out like violent drums. Anna was very hesitant and couldn't tell what Sherlock's next action would be.

Anna cleared her throat and tried to concentrate once more. The would-be accompanying orchestra filled in the space between her notes. They responded to her short question-like phrases.

"Just keep playing." Sherlock spoke, barely a whisper.

Then there was another tickle at her neck. This time it grew moister and Anna could see dark curls from the corner of her eye.

_What's going on! Just because we had sex one time means I'm free game? We haven't even talked about what happened._

Sherlock's nose traced outlines of circles around the base of her neck. When he reached the back of her ear, Anna's breath audibly hitched and the tempo in her bow arm rapidly increased.

_What is he doing? _

_Justkeepplaying. Justkeepplaying. Justkeepplaying. _

Anna pushed on.

His nose went away and was replaced by his fingers. They lightly tugged at the fine loose hairs falling from her bun.

_Hmm, it is nice though. _

Sherlock's fingers brushed up and down her exposed spine and almost around to her collarbone.

Anna felt her exterior quickly becoming weak and her knees gripped the body of her cello tighter and tighter.

All hope was lost for her when Sherlock brought his lips to her earlobe.

_Fuck it. It already happened before. _

Within a mere few seconds, Anna placed her cello on its stand a pushed Sherlock onto the couch before he was able to produce a proper response.

Anna straddled his waist and then she kissed him.

It wasn't loving or passionate. It was hard and bitter and angry and lustful.

Sherlock's hands easily found their way onto her hips and pulled her closer into his own body, his growing hardness became evidence.

Anna rolled her hips down onto his and Sherlock responded by digging his fingers deeper into the flesh of her hips. He broke their kiss and his lips trailed along her neck once more, this time without hesitation.

She ran her fingers through his dark curls and leaned her head back, her chest and torso out on display for his liking. His warm mouth left moist kisses deeper and deeper down, past her collarbone and towards the hem of her neckline.

Then, realization hit down on Anna. Hard.

"Sherlock, what are we doing. This—."

Her argument was broken when Sherlock roughly stood up, now gripping Anna by her bum. Her legs wrapped around his torso for support as Sherlock pushed her into a nearby wall.

"Shut up." He said, before kissing her again.

* * *

**I know it's a bit ooc but all will be (hopefully) explained in the next chapter. Until then, let me know what ya'll think! 3**


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Thank you all for following me and taking a look at my story! I'm glad that you've all come and checked this out and that you've stuck around. **

**As a forewarning, this chapter is rather raunchy. So rated M for mature content. So you all know. Anyways, enjoy!**

* * *

Sherlock was in Anna's flat, she playing her cello and he sitting across from her, his nerves fried and on end. One hand dug into the arm of the chair and the other scratched at the leg of his trousers.

Logically, there was no sound reason that he was there. In fact, he shouldn't be there. His mind was racing and his body was reacting to natural synapses, both entities contradicting one another.

His logical, sound mind knew that he should not be there. As much as he hated to admit this, Sherlock should listen to Mycroft; his social ties with this woman should be broken off. But _ooooh. _Oh his body said otherwise.

_The image of Anna's pale body flashed against the insides of his eyelids. _

Sherlock shook is head to himself.

As if based on pure, natural instinct, Sherlock's body and senses were acting on their own accord.

Sherlock was in a constant battle between sound reason and carnal instinct.

The fact that he was even inside Anna's flat showed that his base instincts were getting the best of him.

"This is an Elgar piece." Anna lightly muttered before setting her bow and pulling it across her strings.

Sherlock watched how she set her fingers gingerly in their proper place, how nimble they sprung from position to position. Then he imagined his fingers, how nimble they could be.

The rumble of the strings alerted his heightened senses and clenched his chest tight. Sherlock closed his eyes, tightly.

_His fingers over her body, just as gentle and precise as an experiment or a Bach partita. Very precise. Very intricate. _

Sherlock opened his eyes and stood up from his spot. In his state of disarray, he still noted Anna's small gasp at his sudden movement. He smirked as a small hiccup came from her song.

"Keep playing. Don't mind me."

Sherlock locked his hands behind his back out of habit and began to slowly circle her. He watched the muscles and tendons beneath her skin as her body made slight and delicate and refined movements.

When he came to her back, he found himself mesmerized at the curvature of Anna's neck. Small, wispy hairs had loosened themselves from the bun at the crown of her head. There was a splash of freckles left behind from the summer sun's kiss.

Sherlock reached out a long finger and just brushed against one.

Anna's body tensed and took a sharp breath in.

"Keep playing." He ordered from behind, momentarily breaking his obsessed gaze. Really, Sherlock was barely listening. He liked to watch.

She cleared her throat after shooting a concerned look his way and began playing once more.

Sherlock looked back to the base of Anna's neck.

"Just keep playing."

His eyes caught sight of traces of a tattoo—he smiled to himself; it wasn't surprising, though. Sherlock bent down and brought his face close to her shoulder, taking in each little freckle.

Sherlock, still in a battle between his better judgment and the desire to throw sensibility out the window, bounced his nose down her neck, counting each little mark and blemish left by the sun.

_One….._

_Two…_

_Three…_

Anna's breath quickened and her song suddenly played at a faster tempo.

_Four…_

_Five…_

Sherlock noted as Anna's body tensed, then released and eased, and he sighed.

_To feel her tense and then relax beneath his own heated body. _

He stood up to his highest height and rolled the fine hairs at the base of her neck. Then, dropping his fingers down, they rolled down her visible spine.

_To have his ears filled with sighs and moans. _

Sherlock's resolve shattered.

* * *

"Shut up." Sherlock hungrily brought his mouth to her own and Anna complied. His body pushed hers harder into the wall and Anna ground her hips onto his once more. Sherlock, free of any inhibitions, let a grumble come up from deep in his throat.

Anna released her legs from Sherlock's waist and grounded her feet to the floor. Sherlock's hands circled around her torso, then traveled up, and found their way into her hair. Her hands moved within his jacket and pushed the bulky object from his frame. It landed in a dark puddle on the floor.

She pushed Sherlock down her short hallway and into her bedroom. Sherlock ran into the edge of the bed and he fell back, bouncing once or twice upon impact. Anna pounced on top of him once more, this time tugging at his shirt.

Her nimble fingers pulled and tugged at each little button. They popped free with ease. She peeled away his shirt, exposing Sherlock's broad pale chest.

Anna took advantage of the exposed skin and bowed down to his neck. She nipped and licked at the skin of his neck and collarbone. Sherlock moaned. Anna smiled to herself and sat up.

His eyes were heavy yet electric with lust and his chest rose and fell with each heavy breath. Anna pulled her hair out of the bun and let it fall around her face. Then, with a mischievous smile, Anna pulled the hem of her shirt over her head.

Sherlock's mouth went slightly agape. He reached a hand up and cupped one of her breasts. At the touch, Sherlock sat up, Anna still on his lap, and his legs over the edge of the bed.

His mouth happily brushed Anna's neck while one hand supported her bottom and the other gingerly brushed over one breast in small circles. Anna took in a slight breath when just two fingers toyed over a nipple. Anna could feel the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile as it traveled further down. At the same time, his free hand pulled apart the fastenings of her bra.

Anna shrugged the piece of clothing off and Sherlock sighed.

Before Sherlock had the opportunity to continue, Anna pushed him back against the bed once more. Her mouth left kisses from his lips, down past his neck and chest. As she ventured farther and farther down, Anna could see Sherlock propped up on his elbows, watching her each movement.

Once passing his navel, Anna looked up with a raised eyebrow and gripped her hand around his clothed erection. Sherlock took in a sharp breath and rolled his head back.

Standing straight up, Anna pulled at the buckle of his belt and pulled it from the loops. She flung it across the room with a little laugh. She pulled the button from his trousers and pulled the zipper down, then pulled them down his hips and off his legs. Sherlock was left in a pair of dark boxers, his erection standing taller.

Anna came back to the bed, much like a prowling cat. On her hands and knees, she crawled up to meet Sherlock, who had scooted all the way back so his head was on her pillows. With a smile again, Anna straddled his waist.

In a quick second, Sherlock rolled them around so that he was lying in between her legs. Mimicking her actions, Sherlock rocked his erection into Anna's sensitive nub. Anna gripped his arms tightly.

"Uuugh. Sherloooock."

And that was enough for both of them. They both discarded the remaining clothing items they had left and threw them in various directions across the room. Anna wrapped her arms tightly around his back and Sherlock guided his erection into her waiting body.

At the warm, moist channel surrounding himself, Sherlock groaned. His head fell into the nook of Anna's neck. She bit her lip.

They started a slow, steady rhythm and their hips met each other with enthusiasm and fervor. At the tantalizing pace, Anna found herself biting at the exposed skin of Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock gave out a soft guttural grunt and pushed himself in deeper. Anna rolled her head back and they brought their pace to a faster, rougher pace. Her hands scraped down his back and pulled Sherlock closer to her body.

Supporting his body on one arm, Sherlock brought his other hand down the length of her torso. Anna gasped at the contact of his long fingers to her sensitive nub. His fingers rolled in small, quick circles.

Sherlock began to move quicker as he could feel Anna's inner walls clench around his hard length, feeling close to his release.

Their bodies both tensed as their orgasm came to completion and they let out soft moans and sighs.

* * *

Robert was occupied in a practice room. The fine arts building was rather vacant on the late Saturday night, as many students would rather be out for a drink instead of drilling scales and passages. However, Robert's viola was firm on his shoulder and his fingers began to ache.

From the piano, his mobile began to vibrate, causing the inner strings of the instrument to vibrate. He would have answered it were it not for the Wagner tune from _Ride of the Valkyries_.

This jingle, set specifically for one IMPORTANT person, always made Robert cringe.

He picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Did you find it yet?" The raspy voice from the other end asked.

Robert sighed and set his instrument in his case, then ran his fingers through his hair.

"No, Sir. Not yet."

"Why are you my wasting time, for fucks sake?"

"I'm working on it! I'm close, I know it."

"No. You had your chance. Time is up." The voice growled. "Find it or _I will._" The voice hung up.

Robert sat down on the piano bench and thought.

He needed to find this object. But he didn't want anyone to get hurt. But if he didn't find it soon, he knew that that would be inevitable.

He frowned and fingered the buttons on his mobile.

Finally getting the courage, he pressed the green button to call out. The dial rang several times.

"Robert, hi!" The bright voice sung from the other end.

"Hi, Anna."

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine." He chuckled a little, instantly regretting his next actions. "I was wondering: are you free tomorrow for a rehearsal?"

* * *

**What'd you all think? **


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: I'M BAAAACK! Sorry that I've been away so long. School and all has kept me plenty busy. But, believe you me, this story was usually in the back of my head. I was itching to update it. **

**And I'm so pleased that so many of you still managed to find this even though I haven't updated in months! I'm glad you all are really enjoying it. **

**Anyways, since you all are so wonderful, I wanted to do a little update. I really wanted to write more to it but I also wanted it to be quality. But you all deserve an update so here's the result! I hope to post more soon! Let me know what you think, lovelies.**

* * *

The next day was Sunday. Most people take Sunday to take a lay in. They allow themselves to rejuvenate for the upcoming week. Apparently, not Anna. Sherlock and John could hear her and her partner playing across the alleyway. They each sipped at their morning tea across from one another in the living room.

John looked over his paper and past his blue house slippers, over to Sherlock. Normally, Sherlock would be in a sour mood. Since the double date, Sherlock had never been particularly happy with this man Anna was seeing and practicing with. However, Sherlock seemed different. Pleasant, even.

Sherlock sat far back in his chair, his legs crossed and eyes still heavy from the nights slumber.

For once, he wasn't antsy. He wasn't rambling on with questions and ideas. He wasn't pacing across the room and wasn't coming up with one of his crazy experiments. And it was delightful.

John smiled to himself.

_Finally, those two got together. _

Sherlock let out a quiet sigh from his chair and closed his eyes softly.

_If this is what he's like afterwards, he needs sex more often!_

Sherlock sat in his chair with his eyes closed, intently listening to the music across the street. The pair had stopped playing together—they had rehearsed part of a quartet or trio, clearly, as the main melody seemed to be missing.

Shostakovich. Must've been. It was so wretched and lovely.

Now, it was just Anna playing.

Sherlock loved when she played. The tenor vibrations within the wooden body seemed to sooth his tense nerves.

Then, from across the room, Sherlock could hear his mobile vibrate against the hard tabletop in the kitchen. He ignored it. It wasn't important enough to pull his attention away.

A minute later, it vibrated again.

With his eyes closed, Sherlock could hear John crinkle his paper a little. The mobile vibrated angrily again. John cleared his throat.

"Are you going to get that?"

"No."

John could be heard grumbling as he got up and walked across the room to Sherlock's angry mobile. Sherlock continued to ignore it and solely focus on the cello across the way.

After a moment, John said, "Uh, Sherlock." He walked closer. "You may want to take a look at these."

Sherlock held out his hand and boringly looked at the screen.

_Morning, Mr. Holmes. _The first one read.

_I know you're there._ Said the next.

_You're just across the room._ Said the last.

Sherlock's nerves tensed up once more.

**Who is this?—SH**

_I'm glad to have your attention, Mr. Holmes._

**You do. Who do I have the ****_pleasure _****of speaking with?—SH**

For a minute or two, Sherlock didn't receive a text back at all. At the growing crecendo across the street, Sherlock could feel himself growing more rigid and uncomfortable with each passing second.

_It's beautiful, is it not?_

**Excuse me?—SH**

_I do enjoy Shubert. It's what she's playing. She IS a skilled musician. _

At the mention of Anna, Sherlock felt the muscles in his neck harden and his nostrils began to flare. He looked down at the screen of his mobile as it vibrated once more in his hand.

_Shubert is quite the composer._

**Is there a purpose to this?—SH**

_All in due time, Mr. Holmes. In the mean time, I'd suggest listening to your friend. _

**Why?—SH**

_Schwanegesang, Mr. Holmes. _

John looked over towards Sherlock from the top edge of his newspaper.

"Problem?"

"YES, John." Sherlock threw his phone into the chair cushion. "FUCK." Sherlock grabbed at his hair and tugged. He threw the front door open and his heavy footsteps could be heard as he made his way down the flight of stairs.

"We were having such a good Sunday." John frowned and rolled his head back.

* * *

****For those who are unfamiliar with musical text, or German, a Lied is a German folk Song or an art song. Lieder are multiple or a collection of Lied. Shubert is very well known for his Lied, often from text by Heinrich Heine.**

**And thanks again! Stick around and see what's next. :)**


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: Hello, lovelies! As always, I'm so pleased when you leave me reviews. It's nice to get some feedback and appreciation. Also, if you have any critique or suggestions on anything, I'd love to hear!**

**I'm glad that you all appreciate the musical aspect of this! As a musician, having other people show their excitement about it is so thrilling for me! **

**I also wanted to answer fantasias review, since they didn't leave a link so I could privately message them. Good choice in classical composers! I just played a Brucker symphony and it's killer on the back. Have you ever heard Smetana's "The Moldau"? I love it to pieces. I love soundtracks! Especially Lord of the Rings. Did you know that there's a lot of musical similarities between that soundtrack and the music of Wagner, inlcuding some of the musical techniques used? **

**Okay, sorry ya'll. :) Anyways, enjoy, and I only have created the character Anna. **

* * *

Sherlock ran out to the sidewalk and turned his gaze to Anna's window. The music stopped playing and was replaced by the loud sound of his own breathing. In a brief panic, Sherlock ran to the front door of Anna's building. He slid his hand down all of the buzzer buttons in attempt to gain access inside.

He stood there a second, shifted his weight back and forth, and gave up. When it came down to it, patience never seemed to be his strong suit.

Sherlock ran to the side of the building. Steering his gaze upward, Sherlock found the stairs to the fire escape. He jumped up and found the hanging ladder to the metal flight of stairs. The weight of his body pulled the extension of the staircase down to this full length and Sherlock walked on up.

He quickly scaled several flights of stairs and rounded the corner. He peeped quickly into every window he passed until he found one that looked right. He jimmied the lock to the window open and slinked on in.

He was in Anna's bedroom.

In massively long strides, Sherlock made it through the room and out towards the living room.

There, he found Robert standing in the middle of the room. Sherlock ran up to him and tightly grasped his large hand around the man's neck. A gurgle-like crack came from his throat as his airway constricted and he attempted to pry Sherlock's hand away from his throat.

"What did you do?" Sherlock seethed, his own face close to Robert's. By then, Robert was gasping and his complexion was turning paler and paler. "WHAT DID YOU—." Sherlock began to yell and shake Robert's body back and forth.

"SHERLOCK!"

He looked over his shoulder, momentarily stopping his actions but not loosening his grip at all.

Anna stood in the doorway of her kitchen with two mugs—one in each hand. "What are you doing! Are you mad?!" She rushed to his side, setting down the mugs on a side table as she passed it. With her now empty fists, Anna started beating at Sherlock's side. "Let him go, you ass!"

As if a sort of shock and disbelief, he suddenly remembered where his hands were. He released Robert from his grip. The sharp inhale from Robert as he regained his breath was ignored. Sherlock stumbled aside.

Anna rushed to Robert's side. "WHAT were you thinking?" Anna shouted again as she cared to Robert.

"I—." Sherlock stuck a hand in his curls. He slowly circled around, now taking in his surroundings fully. The cello lay on it's side and the viola on the couch. SHUBERT was labeled at the top of a piece. He pulled it away.

_Sonata Arpeggione._

He threw it on the ground.

"GET OUT!" Anna threw something his way. Sherlock walked over the couple crouched on the floor and ran through her front door. He took steps two at a time on his way down the flights of stairs.

Sherlock retreated back to the confines of his own room.

* * *

He had been in his room, sitting on the edge of his bed facing a bare wall, for nearly two hours. He was thinking. Not quite in his mind palace but still thinking. Rewinding events. He was trying to understand where he went wrong. He was never so rash. Also, those texts he'd received.

Sherlock pondered these thoughts.

At some point, John barged into his room, not even bothering to knock.

"What the bloody hell were you thinking!" John came up to him. Sherlock didn't respond so John bent down to make their faces level. "Are you daft?" Again, he didn't respond. "For the genius some make you out to be, you can be such a block head!" Angered, John walked circles in the room flinging his arms around with each harsh syllable.

"I got these texts." Sherlock barely mumbled.

"Texts." John stopped his pacing. "You got texts." Each word was sharply articulate and slow.

Sherlock shifted his gaze over towards John.

"Oh right. _Texts_ are a legitimate reason to strangle a man!" John huffed again.

Without saying anything, Sherlock pulled out his mobile and wiggled it in the air for John to see. John rolled his eyes but still took the mobile anyways.

John's facial expression softened from angered to confused in a mere minute. "Hmh," He sighed when we finished reading them and handed Sherlock back the mobile. John stuck his hands in the pockets of his trousers. They both sat in silence for a moment.

"You were worried about her."

"But what do they mean?" Sherlock completely ignored John's remark and jumped up from his spot only to pace back and forth and pull at the roots of his hair.

"Shubert, the composer, right?" John watched as Sherlock continued to pace the room.

"Yes."

By then, John had pulled out his own mobile and found the first search on the internet, under Wikipedia.

"**_Schwanengesang_**_ ("Swan Song") D 957 is the title of a posthumous collection of songs by Franz Schubert. The collection was named by its first publisher Tobias Haslinger, presumably wishing to present it as Schubert's final musical testament to the world."_

His lips moved silently as he continued to read the article.

"_Franz Liszt later transcribed these songs for solo piano."_

"It looks like it was originally for voice, then piano. Anna plays the cello so she couldn't have played this song." John looked up from his mobile screen. "What da'you think it means?"

"I don't know." Sherlock pulled up the texts messages from before and reread them again, searching for any actual meaning.

John, still on the internet, was scrolling through his screen. And then he suddenly stopped.

"Sherlock." He handed the mobile off.

Sherlock smacked himself hard in the forehead and gasped at what he read. "How could I have missed that!" He threw the mobile to John and ran out the door.

The mobile, landing screen facing up was on a new Wikipedia page. The title: **Swan Song. **The first phrase read:

_""__**Swan song**__" is a metaphorical phrase for a final gesture, effort, or performance given just before death or retirement."_

* * *

**Remember to find me on Tumblr: morethanyourpast**

**I'm always happy to talk music or nerdy things with people. Ta!**


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